MARGARET   OGILVY 


MARGARET   OGILVY 


BY   HER  SON 


J.   M.    BARRIE 


¥ 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1896 


CopyrtgM,  1896, 
By  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


u 


To  the  Memory  of 
My  Sister  Jane  Ann 


at*. 


Contents 

Chapter  Page 

I.     How  MY  Mother  got  her  soft  Face  i 

II.     What  She  had  been 21 

III.  What  I  should  be 44 

IV.  An  Editor 63 

V.     A  Day  of  her  Life 84 

VI.     Her  Maid  of  All  Work  ....  109 

VII.     R.  L.  S 131 

VIII.     A  Panic  in  the  House       .     .     .     .  150 

IX.     My  Heroine 165 

X.     Art  Thou  afraid  His   Power  shall 

Fail?.     .     .     « 186 


Margaret  Ogilvy 

CHAPTER   I 

HOW    MY    MOTHER    GOT    HER    SOFT    FACE 

On  the  day  I  was  born  we  bought  six  hair- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  in  our  Httle  house  it 
was  an  event,  the  first  great  victory  in  a 
woman's  long  campaign ;  how  they  had 
been  laboured  for,  the  pound-note  and  the 
thirty  threepenny  bits  they  cost,  what 
anxiety  there  was  about  the  purchase,  the 
show  they  made  in  possession  of  the  west 
room,  my  father's  unnatural  coolness 
when  he  brought  them  in  (but  his  face 
was  white)  —  I  so  often  heard  the  tale 
afterwards,  and  shared  as  boy  and  man  in 
so  many  similar  triumphs,  that  the  com- 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

ing  of  the  chairs  seems  to  be  something 
I  remember,  as  if  I  had  jumped  out  of  bed 
on  that  first  day,  and^  run  ben  to  see  how 
they  looked.  I  am  sure  my  mother's  feet 
were  ettling  to  be  ben  long  before  they 
could  be  trusted,  and  that  the  moment  after 
she  was  left  alone  with  me  she  was  discov- 
ered barefooted  in  the  west  room,  doctor- 
ing a  scar  (which  she  had  been  the  first  to 
detect)  on  one  of  the  chairs,  or  sitting  on 
them  regally  or  withdrawing  and  re-open- 
ing the  door  suddenly  to  take  the  six  by 
surprise.  And  then,  I  think,  a  shawl  was 
flung  over  her  (it  is  strange  to  me  to  think 
it  was  not  I  who  ran  after  her  with  the 
shawl),  and  she  was  escorted  sternly  back 
to  bed  and  reminded  that  she  had  pro- 
mised not  to  budge,  to  which  her  reply 
was  probably  that  she  had  been  gone  but 
an  instant,  and  the  implication  that  there- 
fore she  had  not  been  gone  at  all.     Thus 


MY   MOTHER'S   SOFT   FACE 

was  one  little  bit  of  her  revealed  to  me 
at  once  :  I  wonder  if  I  took  note  of  it. 
Neighbours  came  in  to  see  the  boy  and 
the  chairs.  I  wonder  if  she  deceived  me 
when  she  affected  to  think  that  there 
were  others  like  us,  or  whether  I  saw 
through  her  from  the  first,  she  was  so 
easily  seen  through.  When  she  seemed 
to  agree  with  them  that  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  give  me  a  college  education,  was  I 
so  easily  taken  in,  or  did  I  know  already 
what  ambitions  burned  behind  that  dear 
face  ?  when  they  spoke  of  the  chairs  as  the 
goal  quickly  reached,  was  I  such  a  new- 
comer that  her  timid  lips  must  say  ^  They 
are  but  a  beginning'  before  I  heard  the 
words  ?  And  when  we  were  left  together, 
did  I  laugh  at  the  great  things  that  were  in 
her  mind,  or  had  she  to  whisper  them  to  me 
first,  and  then  did  I  put  my  arm  round  her 
and  tell  her  that  I  would  help  ?   Thus  it  was 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

for  such  a  long  time  :  It  Is  strange  to  me  to 
feel  that  It  was  not  so  from  the  beginning. 
It  is  all  guess-work  for  six  years,  and 
she  whom  I  see  in  them  Is  the  woman 
who  came  suddenly  Into  view  when  they 
were  at  an  end.  Her  timid  lips  I  have 
said,  but  they  were  not  timid  then,  and 
when  I  knew  her  the  timid  lips  had  come. 
The  soft  face  —  they  say  the  face  was  not 
so  soft  then.  The  shawl  that  was  flung 
over  her  —  we  had  not  begun  to  hunt  her 
with  a  shawl,  nor  to  make  our  bodies  a 
screen  between  her  and  the  draughts,  nor 
to  creep  Into  her  room  a  score  of  times  In 
the  night  to  stand  looking  at  her  as  she 
slept.  We  did  not  see  her  becoming 
little  then,  nor  sharply  turn  our  heads 
when  she  said  wonderingly  how  small  her 
arms  had  grown.  In  her  happiest  moments 
—  and  never  was  a  happier  woman  —  her 
mouth  did  not  of  a  sudden  begin  to 
4 


MY   MOTHER'S    SOFT   FACE 

twitch,  and  tears  to  lie  on  the  mute  blue 
eyes  in  which  I  have  read  all  I  know  and 
would  ever  care  to  write.  For  when  you 
looked  into  my  mother's  eyes  you  knew, 
as  if  He  had  told  you,  why  God  sent  her 
into  the  world  —  it  was  to  open  the  minds 
of  all  who  looked  to  beautiful  thoughts. 
X  And  that  is  the  beginning  and  end  of 
literature.  Those  eyes  that  I  cannot  see 
until  I  was  six  years  old  have  guided  me 
through  life,  and  I  pray  God  they  may 
remain  my  only  earthly  judge  to  the  last. 
They  were  never  more  my  guide  than 
when  I  helped  to  put  her  to  earth,  not 
whimpering  because  my  mother  had  been 
taken  away  after  seventy-six  glorious  years 
of  life,  but  exulting  in  her  even  at  the  grave. 

She   had  a   son  who  was    far  away  at 
school.      I    remember   very    little     about 
him,  only  that  he  was  a  merry-faced  boy 
5 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

who  ran  like  a  squirrel  up  a  tree  and 
shook  the  cherries  into  my  lap.  When 
he  was  thirteen  and  I  was  half  his  age 
the  terrible  news  came,  and  I  have  been 
told  the  face  of  my  mother  was  awful  in 
its  calmness  as  she  set  off  to  get  between 
Death  and  her  boy.  We  trooped  with 
her  down  the  brae  to  the  wooden  station, 
and  I  think  I  was  envying  her  the  journey 
in  the  mysterious  waggons ;  I  know  we 
played  around  her,  proud  of  our  right  to 
be  there,  but  I  do  not  recall  it,  I  only 
speak  from  hearsay.  Her  ticket  was 
taken,  she  had  bidden  us  good-bye  with 
that  fighting  face  which  I  cannot  see,  and 
then  my  father  came  out  of  the  telegraph- 
office  and  said  huskily  ^  He 's  gone  ! ' 
Then  we  turned  very  quietly  and  went 
home  again  up  the  little  brae.  But  I 
speak  from  hearsay  no  longer ;  I  knew 
my  mother  for  ever  now. 


MY   MOTHER'S   SOFT   FACE 

That  is  how  she  got  her  soft  face  and 
her  pathetic  ways  and  her  large  charity, 
and  why  other  mothers  ran  to  her  when 
they  had  lost  a  child.  ^  Dinna  greet,  poor 
Janet,'  she  would  say  to  them,  and  they 
would  answer,  ^  Ah,  Margaret,  but  you  're 
greeting  yoursel/  Margaret  Ogilvy  had 
been  her  maiden  name,  and  after  the 
Scotch  custom  she  was  still  Margaret 
Ogilvy  to  her  old  friends.  Margaret 
Ogilvy  I  loved  to  name  her.  Often 
when  I  was  a  boy,  ^  Margaret  Ogilvy,  are 
you  there  ? '  I  would  call  up  the  stair. 

She  was  always  delicate  from  that  hour, 
and  for  many  months  she  was  very  ill.  I 
have  heard  that  the  first  thing  she  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  see  was  the  christening 
robe,  and  she  looked  long  at  it  and  then 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall.  That  was 
what  made  me  as  a  boy  think  of  it  always 

as  the  robe  in  which  he  was  christened,  but 
7 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

I  knew  later  that  we  had  all  been  christened 
in  it,  from  the  oldest  of  the  family  to  the 
youngest,  between  whom  stood  twenty 
years.  Hundreds  of  other  children  were 
christened  in  it  also,  such  robes  being  then 
a  rare  possession,  and  the  lending  of  ours 
among  my  mother's  glories.  It  was  car- 
ried carefully  from  house  to  house,  as  if  it 
were  itself  a  child ;  my  mother  made  much 
of  it,  smoothed  it  out,  petted  it,  smiled  to 
it  before  putting  it  into  the  arms  of  those 
to  whom  it  was  being  lent ;  she  was  in  our 
pew  to  see  it  borne  magnificently  (some- 
thing inside  it  now)  down  the  aisle  to 
the  pulpit  side,  when  a  stir  of  expectancy 
went  through  the  church  and  we  kicked 
each  other's  feet  beneath  the  book-board 
but  were  reverent  in  the  face ;  and  how- 
ever the  child  might  behave,  laughing 
brazenly  or  skirling  to  its  mother's  shame, 
and  whatever  the  father  as  he  held  it  up 


MY   MOTHER'S   SOFT   FACE 

might  do,  look  doited  probably  and  bow  at 
the  wrong  time,  the  christening  robe  of  long 
experience  helped  them  through.  And 
when  it  was  brought  back  to  her  she  took 
It  in  her  arms  as  softly  as  if  it  might  be 
asleep,  and  unconsciously  pressed  it  to  her 
breast :  there  was  never  anything  in  the 
house  that  spoke  to  her  quite  so  eloquently 
as  that  little  white  robe ;  it  was  the  one  of 
her  children  that  always  remained  a  baby. 
And  she  had  not  made  it  herself,  which 
was  the  most  wonderful  thing  about  it  to 
me,  for  she  seemed  to  have  made  all  other 
things.  All  the  clothes  in  the  house  were 
of  her  making,  and  you  don't  know  her  in 
the  least  if  you  think  they  were  out  of  the 
fashion ;  she  turned  them  and  made  them 
new  again,  she  beat  them  and  made  them 
new  again,  and  then  she  coaxed  them  into 
being  new  again  just  for  the  last  time,  she 
let  them  out  and  took  them  in  and  put  on 
9 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

new  braid,  and  added  a  piece  up  the  back, 
and  thus  they  passed  from  one  member  of 
the  family  to  another  until  they  reached 
the  youngest,  and  even  when  we  were 
done  with  them  they  reappeared  as  some- 
thing else.  In  the  fashion  !  I  must  come 
back  to  this.  Never  was  a  woman  with  such 
an  eye  for  it.  She  had  no  fashion-plates ; 
she  did  not  need  them.  The  minister's 
wife  (a  cloak),  the  banker's  daughters  (the 
new  sleeve)  —  they  had  but  to  pass  our 
window  once,  and  the  scalp,  so  to  speak, 
was  in  my  mother's  hands.  Observe  her 
rushing,  scissors  in  hand,  thread  in  mouth, 
to  the  drawers  where  her  daughters' 
Sabbath  clothes  were  kept.  Or  go  to 
church  next  Sunday,  and  watch  a  certain 
family  filing  in,  the  boy  lifting  his  legs 
high  to  show  off  his  new  boots,  but  all 
the  others  demure,  especially  the  timid, 
unobservant  looking  little  woman  In  the 


MY   MOTHER'S   SOFT   FACE 

rear  of  them.  If  you  were  the  minister's 
wife  that  day  or  the  banker's  daughters 
you  would  have  got  a  shock.  But  she 
bought  the  christening  robe,  and  when  I 
used  to  ask  why,  she  would  beam  and 
look  conscious,  and  say  she  wanted  to  be 
extravagant  once.  And  she  told  me,  still 
smiling,  that  the  more  a  woman  was  given 
to  stitching  and  making  things  for  herself, 
the  greater  was  her  passionate  desire  now 
and  again  to  rush  to  the  shops  and  ^  be 
foolish.'  The  christening  robe  with  its 
pathetic  frills  is  over  half  a  century  old 
now,  and  has  begun  to  droop  a  little,  like 
a  daisy  whose  time  is  past,  but  it  is  as 
fondly  kept  together  as  ever :  I  saw  it  in 
use  again  only  the  other  day. 

My  mother  lay  in  bed  with  the  christ- 
ening robe  beside  her,  and  I  peeped  in 
many  times  at  the  door  and  then  went  to 

the    stair  and  sat  on  it  and    sobbed.     I 
II 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

know  not  if  it  was  that  first  day,  or  many 
days  afterwards,  that  there  came  to  me 
my  sister,  the  daughter  my  mother  loved 
the  best,  yes,  more  I  am  sure  even  than 
she  loved  me,  whose  great  glory  she  has 
been  since  I  was  six  years  old.  This 
sister,  who  was  then  passing  out  of  her 
teens,  came  to  me  with  a  very  anxious 
face  and  wringing  her  hands,  and  she  told 
me  to  go  ben  to  my  mother  and  say  to 
her  that  she  still  had  another  boy.  I 
went  ben  excitedly,  but  the  room  was 
dark,  and  when  I  heard  the  door  shut 
and  no  sound  come  from  the  bed  I  was 
afraid,  and  I  stood  still.  I  suppose  I 
was  breathing  hard,  or  perhaps  I  was 
crying,  for  after  a  time  I  heard  a  listless 
voice  that  had  never  been  listless  before 
say,  ^  Is  that  you  ? '  I  think  the  tone 
hurt  me,  for  I  made  no  answer,  and  then 
the   voice    said  more  anxiously,  ^  Is  that 

12 


MY   MOTHER'S   SOFT   FACE 

you  ? '  again.  I  thought  it  was  the  dead 
boy  she  was  speaking  to,  and  I  said  in 
a  little  lonely  voice,  ^  No,  it 's  no  him, 
it 's  just  me/  Then  I  heard  a  cry,  and 
my  mother  turned  in  bed,  and  though  it 
was  dark  I  knew  that  she  was  holding  out 
her  arms. 

After  that  I  sat  a  great  deal  in  her  bed 
trying  to  make  her  forget  him,  which  was 
my  crafty  way  of  playing  physician,  and 
if  I  saw  any  one  out  of  doors  do  some- 
thing that  made  the  others  laugh  I  imme- 
diately hastened  to  that  dark  room  and 
did  it  before  her.  I  suppose  I  was  an 
odd  little  figure  ;  I  have  been  told  that 
my  anxiety  to  brighten  her  gave  my  face 
a  strained  look  and  put  a  tremor  into 
the  joke  (I  would  stand  on  my  head  in 
the  bed,  my  feet  against  the  wall,  and 
then  cry  excitedly,  ^  Are  you  laughing, 
mother  ? ')  —  and  perhaps  what  made  her 
13 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

laugh  was  something  I  was  unconscious 
of,  but  she  did  laugh  suddenly  now  and 
then,  whereupon  I  screamed  exultantly 
to  that  dear  sister,  who  was  ever  in  wait- 
ing, to  come  and  see  the  sight,  but  by  the 
time  she  came  the  soft  face  was  wet  again. 
Thus  I  was  deprived  of  some  of  my 
glory,  and  I  remember  once  only  making 
her  laugh  before  witnesses.  I  kept  a 
record  of  her  laughs  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
a  stroke  for  each,  and  it  was  my  custom 
to  show  this  proudly  to  the  doctor  every 
morning.  There  were  five  strokes  the 
first  time  I  slipped  it  into  his  hand,  and 
when  their  meaning  was  explained  to  him, 
he  laughed  so  boisterously  that  I  cried,  ^  I 
wish  that  was  one  of  hers  ! '  Then  he 
was  sympathetic,  and  asked  me  if  my 
mother  had  seen  the  paper  yet,  and  when 
I  shook  my  head  he  said  that  if  I  showed 

it  to  her  now  and  told  her  that  these  were 
14 


MY   MOTHER'S    SOFT   FACE        , 

her  five  laughs  he   thought  I  might  win 

another.      I   had   less  confidence,  but  he 

was  the   mysterious   man  whom  you   ran 

for  in  the  dead  of  night  (you  flung  sand  at 

his  window  to  waken   him,  and  if  it  was 

only   toothache    he    extracted    the    tooth 

through    the    open  window,   but  when  it 

was  something  sterner  he  was  with  you  in 

the  dark  square  at  once,  like  a  man  who 

slept  in  his  topcoat),  so  I  did  as  he  bade 

me,  and  not  only  did  she  laugh  then  but 

again  when  I  put  the  laugh  down,  so  that 

though  it  was  really  one  laugh  with  a  tear  ' 

in  the  middle  I  counted  it  as  two. 

It  was   doubtless  that  same  sister  who 

told    me    not  to    sulk   when    my   mother 

lay  thinking  of  him,   but    to  try  instead 

to  get  her  to  talk  about  him.     I  did  not 

see    how  this  could  make  her  the   merry 

mother  she  used  to    be,  but   I   was   told 

that  if  I   could  not  do  it  nobody  could, 
IS 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

and  this  made  me  eager  to  begin.  At 
first,  they  say,  I  was  often  jealous,  stop- 
ping her  fond  memories  with  the  cry, 
'  Do  you  mind  nothing  about  me  ? '  but 
that  did  not  last;  its  place  was  taken 
by  an  intense  desire  (again,  I  think,  my 
sister  must  have  breathed  it  into  life)  to 
become  so  like  him  that  even  my  mother 
should  not  see  the  difference,  and  many 
and  artful  were  the  questions  I  put  to 
that  end.  Then  I  practised  in  secret, 
but  after  a  whole  week  had  passed  I 
was  still  rather  like  myself.  He  had 
such  a  cheery  way  of  whistling,  she  had 
told  me,  it  had  always  brightened  her 
at  her  work  to  hear  him  whistling,  and 
when  he  whistled  he  stood  with  his  legs 
apart,  and  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  knickerbockers.  I  decided  to  trust 
to    this,  so    one  day  after  I  had    learned 

his  whistle  (every   boy  of  enterprise    in- 
i6 


MY   MOTHER'S   SOFT   FACE 

vents  a  whistle  of  his  own)  from  boys 
who  had  been  his  comrades,  I  secretly 
put  on  a  suit  of  his  clothes,  dark  grey 
they  were,  with  little  sppts,  and  they 
fitted  me  many  years  afterwards,  and  thus 
disguised  I  slipped,  unknown  to  the 
others,  into  my  mother's  room.  Quak- 
ing, I  doubt  apt,  yet  so  pleased,  I  stood 
still  until  she  saw  me,  and  then  —  how  / 
it  must  have  hurt  her  !  ^  Listen  ! '  I  cried  )( 
in  a  glow  of  triumph,  and  I  stretched 
my  legs  wide  apart  and  plunged  my  hands 
into  the  pockets  of  my  knickerbockers, 
and  began  ^  to  whistle. 

She  lived  twenty-nine  years  after  his 
death,  such  active  years  until  toward  the 
end,  that  you  never  knew  where  she 
was  unless  you  took  hold  of  her,  and 
though  she  was  frail  henceforth  and  ever 
growing   frailer,    her    housekeeping   again 

became  famous,  so  that  brides    called   as 
2  17 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

a  matter  of  course  to  watch  her  ca'ming 
and  sanding  and  stitching :  there  are  old 
people  still,  one  or  two,  to  tell  with  won- 
der in  their  eyes  how  she  could  bake 
twenty-four  bannocks  in  the  hour,  and 
not  a  chip  in  one  of  them.  And  how 
many  she  gave  away,  how  much  she  gave 
away  of  all  she  had,  and  what  pretty 
ways  she  had  of  giving  it !  Her  face 
beamed  and  rippled  with  mirth  as  be- 
fore, and  her  laugh,  that  I  had  tried  so 
hard  to  force,  came  running  home  again. 
I  have  heard  no  such  laugh  as  hers  save 
from  merry  children ;  the  laughter  of 
most  of  us  ages,  and  wears  out  with 
the  body,  but  hers  remained  gleeful  to 
the  last,  as  if  it  were  born  afresh  every 
morning.  There  was  always  something 
of  the  child  in  her,  and  her  laugh  was 
its  voice,  as  eloquent  of  the  past  to  me 
as  was  the  christening  robe  to  her.     But 


MY   MOTHER'S   SOFT   FACE 

I  had  not  made  her  forget  the  bit  of 
her  that  was  dead ;  in  those  nine  and 
twenty  years  he  was  not  removed  one 
day  farther  from  her.  Many  a  time  she 
fell  asleep  speaking  to  him,  and  even 
while  she  slept  her  lips  moved  and  she 
smiled  as  if  he  had  come  back  to  her, 
and  when  she  woke  he  might  vanish  so 
suddenly  that  she  started  up  bewildered 
and  looked  about  her,  and  then  said 
slowly,  ^  My  David 's  dead ! '  or  perhaps 
he  remained  long  enough  to  whisper  why 
he  must  leave  her  now,  and  then  she  lay 
silent  with  filmy  eyes.  When  I  became 
a  man  and  he  was  still  a  boy  of  thirteen, 
I  wrote  a  little  paper  called  ^  Dead  this 
Twenty  Years,'  which  was  about  a  similar 
tragedy  in  another  woman's  life,  and  it  is 
the  only  thing  I  have  written  that  she 
never  spoke  about,  not  even  to  that 
daughter  she  loved  the  best.  No  one 
19 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

ever  spoke  of  it  to  her,  or  asked  her  if 
she  had  read  it:  one  does  not  ask  a 
mother  if  she  knows  that  there  is  a  little 
coffin  in  the  house.  She  read  many  times 
the  book  in  which  it  is  printed,  but  when 
she  came  to  that  chapter  she  would  put 
her  hands  to  her  heart  or  even  over  her 
ears. 


■,*^ 


20 


CHAPTER  II 

WHAT    SHE    HAD    BEEN 

What  she  had  been,  what  I  should  be, 
these  were  the  two  great  subjects  between 
us  in  my  boyhood,  and  while  we  discussed 
the  one  we  were  deciding  the  other,  though 
neither  of  us  knew  it. 

Before  I  reached  my  tenth  year  a  giant 
entered  my  native  place  in  the  night,  and 
we  woke  to  find  him  in  possession.  He 
transformed  it  into  a  new  town  at  a  rate 
with  which  we  boys  only  could  keep  up, 
for  as  fast  as  he  built  dams  we  made  rafts 
to  sail  in  them ;  he  knocked  down  houses, 
and  there  we  were  crying,  *  Pilly  ! '  among 
the  ruins ;  he  dug  trenches,  and  we 
jumped    them ;    we    had    to    be    dragged 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

by  the  legs  from  beneath  his  engines,  he 
sunk  wells,  and  in  we  went.  But  though 
there  were  never  circumstances  to  which 
boys  could  not  adapt  themselves  in  half 
an  hour,  older  folk  are  slower  in  the  up- 
take, and  I  am  sure  they  stood  and  gaped 
at  the  changes  so  suddenly  being  worked 
in  our  midst,  and  scarce  knew  their  way 
home  now  in  the  dark.  Where  had  been 
formerly  but  the  click  of  the  shuttle  was 
soon  the  roar  of  ^  power,'  handlooms  were 
pushed  into  a  corner  as  a  room  is  cleared 
for  a  dance,  every  morning  at  half-past 
five  the  town  was  awakened  with  a  yell, 
and  from  a  chimney-stalk  that  rose  high 
into  our  caller  air  the  conqueror  waved 
for  evermore  his  flag  of  smoke.  Another 
era  had  dawned,  new  customs,  new  fash- 
ions sprang  into  life,  all  as  lusty  as  if  they 
had  been  born  at  twenty-one ;  as  quickly 
as  two  people   may   exchange    seats,    the 


WHAT   SHE    HAD    BEEN 

daughter,  till  now  but  a  knitter  of  stock- 
ings, became  the  breadwinner,  he  who  had 
been  the  breadwinner  sat  down  to  the 
knitting  of  stockings :  what  had  been 
yesterday  a  nest  of  weavers  was  to-day  a 
town  of  girls. 

I  am  not  of  those  who  would  fling 
stones  at  the  change ;  it  is  something, 
surely,  that  backs  are  no  longer  pre- 
maturely bent;  you  may  no  more  look 
through  dim  panes  of  glass  at  the  aged 
poor  weaving  tremulously  for  their  little 
bit  of  ground  in  the  cemetery.  Rather 
are  their  working  years  too  few  now,  not 
because  they  will  it  so  but  because  it  is 
with  youth  that  the  power-looms  must  be 
fed.  Well,  this  teaches  them  to  make 
provision,  and  they  have  the  means  as 
they  never  had  before.  Not  in  batches 
are  boys  now  sent  to  college,  the  half- 
dozen  a  year  have  dwindled  to  one,  doubt- 
23 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

less  because  in  these  days  they  can  begin  to 
draw  wages  as  they  step  out  of  their  four- 
teenth year.  Here  assuredly  there  is  loss, 
but  all  the  losses  would  be  but  a  pebble  in 
a  sea  of  gain  were  it  not  for  this,  that  with 
so  many  of  the  family,  young  mothers 
among  them,  working  in  the  factories,  home 
life  is  not  so  beautiful  as  it  was.  So  much 
of  what  is  great  in  Scotland  has  sprung 
from  the  closeness  of  the  family  ties ; 
it  is  there  I  sometimes  fear  that  my 
^  country  is  being  struck.  That  we  are  all 
being  reduced  to  one  dead  level,  that 
^  character '  abounds  no  more  and  life 
itself  is  less  interesting,  such  things  I 
have  read,  but  I  do  not  believe  them.  I 
have  even  seen  them  given  as  my  reason 
for  writing  of  a  past  time,  and  in  that  at 
least  there  is  no  truth.  In  our  little  town, 
which  is  a  sample  of  many,  life  is  as  in- 
teresting, as  pathetic,  as  joyous  as  ever  it 
24 


WHAT   SHE    HAD    BEEN 

was  ;  no  group  of  weavers  was  better  to 
look  at  or  think  about  than  the  rivulet 
of  winsome  girls  that  overruns  our  streets 
every  time  the  sluice  is  raised,  the  comedy 
of  summer  evenings  and  winter  firesides 
is  played  with  the  old  zest  and  every 
window-blind  is  the  curtain  of  a  romance. 
Once  the  lights  of  a  little  town  are  lit, 
who  could  ever  hope  to  tell  all  its  story, 
or  the  story  of  a  single  wynd  in  it  ?  And 
who  looking  at  lighted  windows  needs  to 
turn  to  books?  The  reason  my  books 
deal  with  the  past  instead  of  with  the 
life  I  myself  have  known  is  simply  this, 
that  I  soon  grow  tired  of  writing  tales 
unless  I  can  see  a  little  girl,  of  whom  my 
mother  has  told  me,  wandering  confidently 
through  the  pages.  Such  a  grip  has  her 
memory  of  her  girlhood  had  upon  me 
since  I  was  a  boy  of  six. 

Those  innumerable  talks  with  her  made 
25 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

her  youth  as  vivid  to  me  as  my  own,  and 

so  much  more  quaint,  for,  to  a  child,  the 

oddest   of  things,    and    the    most   richly 

coloured  picture-book,  is  that  his  mother 

was   once    a   child  also,  and  the  contrast 

between   what   she    is   and  what  she  was 

is  perhaps  the  source  of  all  humour.     My 

mother's  father,  the  one  hero   of  her  life, 

died  nine  years  before   I   was   born,  and 

I    remember   this    with   bewilderment,   so 

familiarly  does  the  weather-beaten  mason's 

figure  rise  before  me  from  the  old  chair 

on  which  I  was  nursed  and  now  write  my 

books.     On  the  surface  he  is  as  hard  as 

the  stone  on  which  he  chiselled,  and  his 

face  is  dyed  red  by  its  dust,  he  is  rounded 

in  the  shoulders  and  a  ^  hoast '  hunts  him 

ever;    sooner    or  later   that   cough   must 

carry  him  off,  but  until  then  it  shall  not 

keep  him  from  the  quarry,  nor  shall  his 

chapped  hands,  as  long  as  they  can  grasp 
26 


WHAT   SHE    HAD    BEEN 

the  mell.  It  Is  a  night  of  rain  or  snow, 
and  my  mother,  the  httle  girl  in  a  pinafore 
who  is  already  his  housekeeper,  has  been 
many  times  to  the  door  to  look  for  him. 
At  last  he  draws  nigh,  hoasting.  Or  I  see 
him  setting  off  to  church,  for  he  was  a 
great  ^  stoop  '  of  the  Auld  Licht  kirk,  and 
his  mouth  is  very  firm  now  as  if  there 
were  a  case  of  discipline  to  face,  but  on 
his  way  home  he  is  bowed  with  pity. 
Perhaps  his  little  daughter  who  saw  him 
so  stern  an  hour  ago  does  not  under- 
stand why  he  wrestles  so  long  in  prayer 
to-night,  or  why  when  he  rises  from  his 
knees  he  presses  her  to  him  with  un- 
wonted tenderness.  Or  he  is  in  this  chair 
repeating  to  her  his  favourite  poem,  ^  The 
Cameronian's  Dream,'  and  at  the  first  lines 
so  solemnly  uttered, 

*  In  a  dream  of  the  night  I  was  wafted  away/ 

she   screams   with    excitement,  just  as    I 
27 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

screamed  long  afterwards  when  she  re- 
peated them  in  his  voice  to  me.  Or  I 
watch,  as  from  a  window,  while  she  sets 
off  through  the  long  parks  to  the  distant 
place  where  he  is  at  work,  in  her  hand  a 
flaggon  which  contains  his  dinner.  She 
is  singing  to  herself  and  gleefully  swing- 
ing the  flaggon,  she  jumps  the  burn  and 
proudly  measures  the  jump  with  her  eye, 
but  she  never  dallies  unless  she  meets  a 
baby,  for  she  was  so  fond  of  babies  that 
she  must  hug  each  one  she  met,  but 
while  she  hugged  them  she  also  noted 
how  their  robes  were  cut,  and  afterwards 
made  paper  patterns,  which  she  concealed 
jealously,  and  in  the  fulness  of  time  her 
first  robe  for  her  eldest  born  was  fash- 
ioned from  one  of  these  patterns,  made 
when  she  was  in  her  twelfth  year. 

She  was  eight  when  her  mother's  death 

made    her    mistress    of    the    house    and 

28 


WHAT   SHE    HAD    BEEN 

mother   to    her   little    brother,   and   from 

that  time  she  scrubbed  and  mended  and 

baked  and   sewed,  and    argued   with  the 

flesher  about  the  quarter  pound    of  beef 

and  penny  bone   which  provided    dinner 

for  two  days  (but  if  you  think  that  this 

was  poverty  you  don't  know  the  meaning 

of  the  word),  and   she  carried  the  water 

from  the  pump,  and  had  her  washing  days 

and  her  ironings  and  a  stocking  always  on 

the  wire  for  odd  moments,  and  gossiped 

like  a  matron  with  the  other  women,  and 

humoured  the  men  with  a  tolerant  smile 

—  all  these  things  she  did  as  a  matter  of 

course,   leaping  joyful    from    bed   in   the 

morning   because  there   was   so   much  to 

do,  doing  it  as  thoroughly  and  sedately 

as  if  the    brides  were  already  due  for  a 

lesson,  and  then  rushing  out    in  a  fit  of 

childishness  to    play  dumps  or  palaulays 

with  others  of  her  age.     I  see  her  frocks 
29 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

lengthening,  though  they  were  never  very 
short,  and  the  games  given  reluctantly 
up.  The  horror  of  my  boyhood  was  that 
I  knew  a  time  would  come  when  I  also 
must  give  up  the  games,  and  how  it  was 
to  be  done  I  saw  not  (this  agony  still  re- 
turns to  me  in  dreams,  when  I  catch 
myself  playing  marbles,  and  look  on  with 
cold  displeasure) ;  I  felt  that  I  must  con- 
tinue playing  in  secret,  and  I  took  this 
shadow  to  her,  when  she  told  me  her  own 
experience,  which  convinced  us  both  that 
we  were  very  like  each  other  inside.  She 
had  discovered  that  work  is  the  best  fun 
after  all,  and  I  learned  it  in  time,  but 
have  my  lapses,  and  so  had  she. 

I  know  what  was  her  favourite  costume 
when  ^he  was  at  the  age  that  they  make 
heroines  of :  it  was  a  pale  blue  with  a  pale 
blue  bonnet,  the  white  ribbons  of  which 
tied  aggravatingly  beneath  the  chin,  and 
30 


WHAT   SHE    HAD    BEEN 

when  questioned  about  this  garb  she  never 
admitted  that  she  looked  pretty  in  it,  but 
she  did  say,  with  blushes  too,  that  blue 
was  her  colour,  and  then  she  might  smile, 
as  at  some  memory,  and  begin  to  tell  us 
about  a  man  who  —  but  it  ended  there  with 
another  smile  which  was  longer  in  depart- 
ing. She  never  said,  indeed  she  denied 
strenuously,  that  she  had  led  the  men  a 
dance,  but  again  the  smile  returned,  and 
came  between  us  and  full  belief.  Yes,  she 
had  her  little  vanities  ;  when  she  got  the 
Mizpah  ring  she  did  carry  that  finger  in 
such  a  way  that  the  most  reluctant  must 
see.  She  was  very  particular  about  her 
gloves,  and  hid  her  boots  so  that  no  other 
should  put  them  on,  and  then  she  forgot 
their  hiding-place,  and  had  suspicions  of 
the  one  who  found  them.  A  good  way 
of  enraging  her  was  to  say  that  her  last 
year's  bonnet  would  do  for  this  year  with- 
31 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

out  alteration,  or  that  it  would  defy  the 
face  of  clay  to  count  the  number  of  her 
shawls.  In  one  of  my  books  there  is  a 
mother  who  is  setting  off  with  her  son  for 
the  town  to  which  he  had  been  called  as 
minister,  and  she  pauses  on  the  threshold 
to  ask  him  anxiously  if  he  thinks  her  bon- 
net ^  sets  '  her.  A  reviewer  said  she  acted 
thus,  not  because  she  cared  how  she  looked, 
but  for  the  sake  of  her  son.  This,  I  re- 
member, amused  my  mother  very  much. 

I  have  seen  many  weary  on-dings  of 
snow,  but  the  one  I  seem  to  recollect  best 
occurred  nearly  twenty  years  before  I  was 
born.  It  was  at  the  time  of  my  mother's 
marriage  to  one  who  proved  a  most  loving 
as  he  was  always  a  well-loved  husband,  a 
man  I  am  very  proud  to  be  able  to  call  my 
father.  I  know  not  for  how  many  days 
the  snow  had  been  falling,  but  a  day  came 

when  the  people  lost  heart  and  would  make 
32 


WHAT   SHE   HAD    BEEN 

no  more  gullies  through  it,  and  by  next 
morning  to  do  so  was  impossible,  they 
could  not  fling  the  snow  high  enough. 
Its  back  was  against  every  door  ^when 
Sunday  came,  and  none  ventured  out  save 
a  valiant  few,  who  buffeted  their  way  into 
my  mother's  home  to  discuss  her  predica- 
ment, for  unless  she  was  ^ cried'  in  the 
church  that  day  she  might  not  be  married 
for  another  week,  and  how  could  she  be 
cried  with  the  minister  a  field  away  and 
the  church  buried  to  the  waist  ?  For 
hours  they  talked,  and  at  last  some  men 
started  for  the  church,  which  was  several 
hundred  yards  distant.  Three  of  them 
found  a  window,  and  forcing  a  passage 
through  it,  cried  the  pair,  and  that  is  how 
it  came  about  that  my  father  and  mother 
were  married  on  the  first  of  March. 
That  would  be  the  end,  I  suppose,  if  it 

were  a   story,  but   to  my  mother  it  was 
3  33 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

only  another  beginning,  and  not  the  last, 

I  see  her  bending  over  the  cradle  of  her 

first-born,  college  for  him  already  in  her 

eye  (and  my  father    not  less  ambitious), 

and  anon  it  is  a  girl  who  is  in  the  cradle, 

and  then  another  girl  —  already  a  tragic 

figure    to    those   who    know  the  end.     I 

wonder   if  any  instinct   told  my  mother 

that  the  great  day  of  her  life  was  when  she 

bore  this  child ;  what  I  am  sure  of  is  that 

from  the  first  the  child  followed  her  with 

the  most  wistful  eyes   and    saw  how  she 

needed  help  and  longed  to  rise  and  give  it. 

For  of  physical  strength   my  mother  had 

never  very  much  ;  it  was  her  spirit  that  got 

through  the  work,  and  in  those  days  she 

was  often  so  ill  that  the  sand  rained  on  the 

doctor's  window,  and  men  ran  to  and  fro 

with  leeches,  and  ^  she  is  in  life,  we  can  say 

no  more '  was  the  information  for  those  who 

came  knocking  at  the  door.     ^  I  am  sorrow 
34 


WHAT   SHE    HAD   BEEN 

to  say/  her  father  writes  in  an  old  letter 
now  before  me,  ^  that  Margaret  is  in  a 
state  that  she  was  never  so  bad  before  in 
this  world.  Till  Wednesday  night  she 
was  in  as  poor  a  condition  as  you  could 
think  of  to  be  alive.  However,  after 
bleeding,  leeching,  etc.,  the  Dr.  says  this 
morning  that  he  is  better  hoped  now,  but 
at  present  we  can  say  no  more  but  only 
she  is  alive  and  in  the  hands  of  Him  in 
whose  hands  all  our  lives  are.  I  can  give 
you  no  adequate  view  of  what  my  feelings 
are,  indeed  they  are  a  burden  too  heavy 
for  me  and  I  cannot  describe  them.  I 
look  on  my  right  and  left  hand  and  find 
no  comfort,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  rock 
that  is  higher  than  I  my  spirit  would 
utterly  fail,  but  blessed  be  His  name  who 
can  comfort  those  that  are  cast  down.  O 
for  more  faith  in  His  supporting  grace  in 
this  hour  of  trial.' 

35 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

Then  she  is  ^  on  the  mend/  she  may 
^  thole  thro' '  If  they  take  great  care  of  her, 
^  which  we  will  be  forward  to  do/  The 
fourth  child  dies  when  but  a  few  weeks 
old,  and  the  next  at  two  years.  She  was 
her  grandfather's  companion,  and  thus  he 
wrote  of  her  death,  this  stern,  self-edu- 
cated Auld  Licht  with  the  chapped  hands : 

^  I  hope  you  received  my  last  in  which  I 

spoke  of  Dear  little  Lydia  being  unwell. 

Now  with   deep  sorrow  I  must  tell    you 

that  yesterday    I    assisted    in    laying   her 

dear  remains    in  the    lonely   grave.     She 

died  at  7  o'clock  on  Wednesday  evening, 

I  suppose  by  the  time  you  had  got  the 

letter.     The    Dr.    did    not   think    it   was 

croup  till  late  on  Tuesday  night,  and  all 

that  Medical  aid  could  prescribe  was  done, 

but  the  Dr.  had    no  hope   after    he    saw 

that  the  croup  was   confirmed,  and  hard 

indeed  would  the    heart  have   been    that 
36 


WHAT   SHE   HAD   BEEN 

would  not  have  melted  at  seeing  what  the 
dear  little  creature  suffered  all  Wednesday 
until  the  feeble  frame  was  quite  worn  out. 
She  was  quite  sensible  till  within  2  hours 
of  her  death,  and  then  she  sunk  quite 
low  till  the  vital  spark  fled,  and  all  medi- 
cine that  she  got  she  took  with  the  greatest 
readiness,  as  if  apprehensive  they  would 
make  her  well.  I  cannot  well  describe 
my  feelings  on  the  occasion.  I  thought 
that  the  fountain  head  of  my  tears  had 
now  been  dried  up,  but  I  have  been  mis- 
taken, for  I  must  confess  that  the  briny 
rivulets  descended  fast  on  my  furrowed 
cheeks,  she  was  such  a  winning  Child,  and 
had  such  a  regard  for  me  and  always  came 
and  told  me  all  her  little  things,  and  as 
she  was  now  speaking,  some  of  her  little 
prattle  was  very  taking,  and  the  lively 
images  of  these  things  intrude  themselves 
more  into  my  mind  than  they  should  do, 
37 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

but  there  is  allowance  for  moderate  grief 

on  such  occasions.    But  when  I  am  telling 

you  of  my  own  grief  and  sorrow,  I  know 

not  what  to  say  of  the  bereaved  Mother, 

she  hath   not  met  with    anything  in  this 

world  before  that  hath  gone  so  near  the 

quick  with  her.     She  had  no  handling  of  the 

last  one  as  she  was  not  able  at  the  time, 

for  she  only  had  her  once  in  her  arms,  and 

her  affections  had  not  time  to  be  so  fairly 

entwined  around  her.     I  am  much  afraid 

that  she  will  not  soon  if  ever  get  over  this 

trial.      Although   she  was  weakly  before, 

yet  she  was  pretty  well  recovered,  but  this 

hath  not  only  affected  her  mind  but  her 

body  is  so  much  affected  that  she  is  not 

well    able    to    sit  so   long    as    her  bed  is 

making    and    hath    scarcely    tasted    meat 

[i.e.  food]  since   Monday   night,   and  till 

some  time  is  elapsed  we  cannot  say  how 

she  may  be.     There  is  none  that  is  not  a 
38 


WHAT   SHE    HAD    BEEN 

parent  themselves  that  can  fully  sym- 
pathise with  one  in  such  a  state.  David 
is  much  aflfected  also,  but  it  is  not  so  well 
known  on  him,  and  the  younger  branches 
of  the  family  are  affected  but  it  will  be 
only  momentary.  But  alas  in  all  this  vast 
ado,  there  is  only  the  sorrow  of  the  world 
which  worketh  death,  O  how  gladdening 
would  it  be  if  we  were  in  as  great  bitter- 
ness for  sin  as  for  the  loss  of  a  first-born. 
O  how  unfitted  persons  or  families  is  for 
trials  who  knows  not  the  divine  art  of 
casting  all  their  cares  upon  the  Lord,  and 
what  multitudes  are  there  that  when 
earthly  comforts  is  taken  away,  may 
well  say  what  have  I  more  ?  all  their 
delight  is  placed  in  some  one  thing  or 
another  in  the  world,  and  who  can  biame 
them  for  unwillingly  parting  with  what 
they  esteem  their  chief  good.  O  that  we 
were  wise  to  lay  up  treasure  for  the  time 
39 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

of  need,  for  it  is  truly  a  solemn  affair  to 
enter  the  lists  with  the  king  of  terrors. 
It  is  strange  that  the  living  lay  the  things 
so  little  to  heart  until  they  have  to  engage 
in   that  war  where  there   is  no  discharge. 

0  that  my  head  were  waters  and  mine 
eyes  a  fountain  of  tears  that  I  might  weep 
day  and  night  for  my  own  and  others* 
stupidity  in  this  great  matter.  O  for 
grace  to  do  every  day  work  in  its  proper 
time  and  to  live  above  the  tempting 
cheating  train  of  earthly  things.  The 
rest   of  the    family  are    moderately   well. 

1  have  been  for  some  days  worse  than  1 

have  been  for  8  months  past,  but  I  may 

soon  get   better,  I    am    in  the  same  way 

I   have  often  been  in  before,  but  there  is 

no   security  for  it  always  being  so,  for  1 

know  that  it  cannot  be  far  from  the  time 

when    I  will    be  one   of  those  that  once 

were.      I    have    no   other   news   to  send 
40 


WHAT   SHE    HAD   BEEN 

you,  and  as  little  heart  for  them.  I  hope 
you  will  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of 
writing  that  you  can,  and  be  particular 
as  regards  Margaret,  for  she  requires 
consolation/ 

He  died  exactly  a  week  after  writing 
this  letter,  but  my  mother  was  to  live 
for  another  forty-four  years.  And  joys 
of  a  kind  never  shared  in  by  him  were 
to  come  to  her  so  abundantly,  so  long 
drawn  out  that,  strange  as  it  would  have 
seemed  to  him  to  know  it,  her  fuller 
life  had  scarce  yet  begun.  And  with 
the  joys  were  to  come  their  sweet,  fright- 
ened comrades,  pain  and  grief,  again  she 
was  to  be  touched  to  the  quick,  again 
and  again  to  be  so  ill  that  ^she  is  in 
life,  we  can  say  no  more,'  but  still  she 
had  attendants  very  ^  forward '  to  help 
her,  some  of  them  unborn  in  her  father's 

time. 

41 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

She  told  me  everything,  and  so  my 
memories  of  our  little  red  town  are  col- 
oured by  her  memories.  I  knew  it  as  it 
had  been  for  generations,  and  suddenly 
I  saw  it  change,  and  the  transformation 
could  not  fail  to  strike  a  boy,  for  these 
first  years  are  the  most  impressionable 
(nothing  that  happens  after  we  are  twelve 
matters  very  much) ;  they  are  also  the 
most  vivid  years  when  we  look  back,  and 
more  vivid  the  farther  we  have  to  look, 
until,  at  the  end,  what  lies  between  bends 
like  a  hoop,  and  the  extremes  meet.  But 
though  the  new  town  is  to  me  a  glass 
through  which  I  look  at  the  old,  the  people 
I  see  passing  up  and  down  these  wynds,  sit- 
ting, night-capped,  on  their  barrow-shafts, 
hobbling  in  their  blacks  to  church  on 
Sunday,  are  less  those  I  saw  in  my  child- 
*    hood  than  their  fathers  and  mothers  who 

did  these  things  in  the  same  way  when  my 
42 

it 


WHAT   SHE    HAD   BEEN 

mother  was  young.  I  cannot  picture  the 
place  without  seeing  her,  as  a  Httle  girl, 
come  to  the  door  of  a  certain  house  and 
beat  her  bass  against  the  gav'le-end,  or 
there  is  a  wedding  to-night,  and  the  carriage 
with  the  white-eared  horse  is  sent  for  a 
maiden  in  pale  blue,  whose  bonnet-strings 
tie  beneath  the  chin. 


43 


CHAPTER   III 

WHAT    I    SHOULD    BE 

My  mother  was  a  great  reader,  and  with 
ten  minutes  to  spare  before  the  starch 
was  ready  would  begin  the  ^  Decline  and 
Fall '  —  and  finish  it,  too,  that  winter. 
Foreign  words  in  the  text  annoyed  her 
and  made  her  bemoan  her  want  of  a 
classical  education  —  she  had  only  attended 
a  Dame's  school  during  some  easy  months 
—  but  she  never  passed  the  foreign  words 
by  until  their  meaning  was  explained  to 
her,  and  when  next  she  and  they  met  it 
was  as  acquaintances,  which  I  think  was 
clever  of  her.     One  of  her  delights  was  to 

learn  from  me  scraps  of  Horace,  and  then 

44 


WHAT   I   SHOULD    BE 

bring  them  into  her  conversation  with 
*  colleged  men.'  I  have  come  upon  her  in 
lonely  places,  such  as  the  stair-head  or 
the  east  room,  muttering  these  quotations 
aloud  to  herself,  and  I  well  remember  how 
she  would  say  to  the  visitors,  ^  Ay,  ay,  it 's 
very  true.  Doctor,  but  as  you  know,  "  Eheu 
fugaces,  Postume,  Postume,  labuntur 
anni,'' '  or  *  Sal,  Mr.  so  and  so,  my  lassie  is 
thriving  well,  but  would  it  no  be  more  to 
the  point  to  say  "  O  mater,  pulchra  filia 
pulchrior  "  ? '  which  astounded  them  very 
much  if  she  managed  to  reach  the  end 
without  being  flung,  but  usually  she  had 
a  fit  of  laughing  in  the  middle,  and  so 
they  found  her  out. 

Biography  and  exploration  were  her 
favourite  reading,  for  choice  the  biography 
of  men  who  had  been  good  to  their 
mothers,  and  she  liked  the  explorers  to  be 
alive  so  that  she  could  shudder  at  the 
45 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

thought  of  their  venturing  forth  again, 
but  though  she  expressed  a  hope  that  they 
would  have  the  sense  to  stay  at  home 
henceforth,  she  gleamed  with  admiration 
when  they  disappointed  her.  In  later 
days  I  had  a  friend  who  was  an  African 
explorer,  and  she  was  in  two  minds  about 
him ;  he  was  one  of  the  most  engrossing 
of  mortals  to  her,  she  admired  him  pro- 
digiously, pictured  him  at  the  head  of  his 
caravan,  now  attacked  by  savages,  now  by 
wild  beasts,  and  adored  him  for  the  uneasy 
hours  he  gave  her,  but  she  was  also  afraid 
that  he  wanted  to  take  me  with  him,  and 
then  she  thought  he  should  be  put  down 
by,  law.  Explorers'  mothers  also  interested 
her  very  much ;  the  books  might  tell  her 
nothing  about  them,  but  she  could  create 
them  for  herself  and  wring  her  hands  in 
sympathy  with  them  when  they  had  got 

no  news  of  him  for  six  months.    Yet  there 

46  ^ 


WHAT   I   SHOULD    BE 

were  times  when  she  grudged  him  to 
them  —  as  the  day  when  he  returned 
victorious.  Then  what  was  before  her 
eyes  was  not  the  son  coming  marching 
home  again  but  an  old  woman  peering  for 
him  round  the  window  curtain  and  trying 
not  to  look  uplifted.  The  newspaper 
reports  would  be  about  the  son,  but  my 
mother's  comment  was  ^  She 's  a  proud 
woman  this  night.' 

We  read  many  books  together  when  I 
was  a  boy,  ^  Robinson  Crusoe '  being  the 
first  (and  the  second),  and  the  ^  Arabian 
Nights '  should  have  been  the  next,  for 
we  got  it  out  of  the  library  (a  penny  for 
three  days),  but  on  discovering  that  they 
were  nights  when  we  had  paid  for  knights 
we  sent  that  volume  packing,  and  I  have 
curled  my  lips  at  it  ever  since.  ^The 
Pilgrim's  Progress '  we  had  in  the  house 

(it   was    as     common   a   possession    as    a 
47 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

dresser-head),  and  so  enamoured  of  It  was 
I  that  I  turned  our  garden  into  sloughs 
of  Despond,  with  pea-sticks  to  represent 
Christian  on  his  travels  and  a  bufFet-stool 
for  his  burden,  but  when  I  dragged  my 
mother  out  to  see  my  handiwork  she  was 
scared,  and  I  felt  for  days,  with  a  certain 
elation,  that  I  had  been  a  dark  character. 
Besides  reading  every  book  we  could  hire 
or  borrow  I  also  bought  one  now  and 
again,  and  while  buying  (it  was  the  occu- 
pation of  weeks)  I  read,  standing  at  the 
counter,  most  of  the  other  books  in  the 
shop,  which  is  perhaps  the  most  exquisite 
way  of  reading.  And  I  took  in  a  maga- 
zine called  ^  Sunshine,'  the  most  delicious 
periodical,  I  am  sure,  of  any  day.  It  cost 
a  halfpenny  or  a  penny  a  month,  and 
always,  as  I  fondly  remember,  had  a  con- 
tinued  tale    about  the    dearest    girl,  who 

sold   water-cress,  which   is  a   dainty    not 
48 


WHAT   I   SHOULD    BE 

grown  and  I  suppose  never  seen  in  my 
native  town.  This  romantic  little  creature 
took  such  hold  of  my  imagination  that  I 
cannot  eat  water-cress  even  now  without 
emotion.  I  lay  in  bed  wondering  what 
she  would  be  up  to  in  the  next  number ;  I 
have  lost  trout  because  when  they  nibbled 
my  mind  was  wandering  with  her ;  my 
early  life  was  embittered  by  her  not  arriv- 
ing regularly  on  the  first  of  the  month.  I 
know  not  whether  it  was  owing  to  her 
loitering  on  the  way  one  month  to  an  extent 
flesh  and  blood  could  not  bear,  or  because 
we  had  exhausted  the  penny  library,  but 
on  a  day  I  conceived  a  glorious  idea,  or  it 
was  put  into  my  head  by  my  mother,  then 
desirous  of  making  progress  with  her 
new  clouty  hearth-rug.  The  notion  was 
nothing  short  of  this,  why  should  I  not 
write  the  tales  myself?     I  did  write  them 

—  in  the  garret  —  but  they  by  no  means 
4  49 


# 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

helped  her  to  get  on  with  her  work,  for 
when  I  finished  a  chapter  I  bounded 
downstairs  to  read  it  to  her,  and  so  short 
were  the  chapters,  so  ready  was  the  pen, 
that  I  was  back  with  new  manuscript 
before  another  clout  had  been  added  to 
the  rug.  Authorship  seemed,  like  her 
bannock-baking,  to  consist  of  running 
between  two  points.  They  were  all  tales 
of  adventure  (happiest  is  he  who  writes  of 
adventure),  no  characters  were  allowed, 
within  if  I  knew  their  like  in  the  flesh,  the 
scene  lay  in  unknown  parts,  desert  islands, 
enchanted  gardens,  with  knights  (none  of 
your  nights)  on  black  chargers,  and  round 
the  first  corner  a  lady  selHng  water-cress. 

At  twelve  or  thereabout  I  put  the  literary 
calling  to  bed  for  a  time,  having  gone  to 
a  school  where  cricket  and  football  were 
more  estpemed,  but  during  the  year  before 
I  went  to  the  university^  it  woke  up 
50 


WHAT   I   SHOULD    BE      ^ 

and  I  wrote  great  part  of  a  three-volume 
novel.  The  publisher  replied  that  the 
sum  for  which  he  would  print  it  was  a 
hundred  and  —  however,  that  was  not  the 
important  point  (I  had  sixpence) :  where 
he  stabbed  us  both  was  in  writing  that  he 
considered  me  a  ^  clever  lady.'  I  replied 
stiffly  that  I  was  a  gentleman,  and  since 
then  I  have  kept  that  manuscript  con- 
cealed. I  looked  through  it  lately,  and, 
oh,  but  it  is  dull.  I  defy  any  one  to 
read  it. 

The  malignancy  of  publishers,  however, 
could  not  turn  me  back.  From  the  day 
on  which  I  first  tasted  blood  in  the  garret 
my  mind  was  made  up ;  there  could  be 
no  hum-dreadful-drum  profession  for  me ; 
literature  was  my  game.  It  was  not 
highly  thought  of  by  those  who  wished 
me  well.     I  remember  being  asked  by  two 

maiden  ladies,,  about  the  time  I  left  the 
51 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

university,  what  I  was  to  be,  and  when  I 
replied  brazenly,  ^An  author,*  they  flung 
up  their  hands,  and  one  exclaimed  re- 
proachfully, '  And  you  an  M.A. ! '  My 
mother's  views  at  first  were  not  dissimilar ; 
for  long  she  took  mine  jestingly  as  some- 
thing I  would  grow  out  of,  and  afterwards 
they  hurt  her  so  that  I  tried  to  give  them 
up.  To  be  a  minister  —  that  she  thought 
was  among  the  fairest  prospects,  but  she 
was  a  very  ambitious  woman,  and  some- 
times she  would  add,  half  scared  at  her 
appetite,  that  there  were  ministers  who 
had  become  professors,  ^  but  it  was  not 
canny  to  think  of  such  things.' 

I  had  one  person  only  on  my  side,  an  old 
tailor,  one  of  the  fullest  men  I  have  known, 
and  quite  the  best  talker.  He  was  a 
bachelor  (he  told  me  all  that  is  to  be 
known  about  woman),  a  lean  man,  pallid 

of  face,  his  legs  drawn  up  when  he  walked 
52 


WHAT   I    SHOULD    BE 

as  if  he  was  ever  carrying  something  in 
his  lap  ;  his  walks  were  of  the  shortest, 
from  the  tea-pot  on  the  hob  to  the  board 
on  which  he  stitched,  from  the  board  to 
the  hob,  and  so  to  bed.  He  might  have 
gone  out  had  the  idea  struck  him,  but  in 
the  years  I  knew  him,  the  last  of  his 
brave  life,  I  think  he  was  only  in  the  open 
twice,  when  he  ^  flitted '  —  changed  his 
room  for  another  hard  by.  I  did  not  see 
him  make  these  journeys,  but  I  seem  to 
see  him  now,  and  he  is  somewhat  dizzy 
in  the  odd  atmosphere  ;  in  one  hand  he 
carries  a  box-iron,  he  raises  the  other, 
wondering  what  this  is  on  his  head,  it  is 
a  hat ;  a  faint  smell  of  singed  cloth  goes 
by  with  him.  This  man  had  heard  of  my 
set  of  photographs  of  the  poets  and 
asked  for  a  sight  of  them,  which  led  to 
our  first  meeting.  I  remember  how  he 
spread  them  out  on  his  board,  and  after 
53 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

looking  long  at  them,  turned  his  gaze  on 
me  and  said  solemnly, 

*  What  can  I  do  to  be  for  ever  known. 
And  make  the  age  to  come  my  own  ?  * 

These  lines  of  Cowley  were  new  to  me, 
but  the  sentiment  was  not  new,  and  I 
marvelled  how  the  old  tailor  could  see 
through  me  so  well.  So  it  was  strange  to 
me  to  discover  presently  that  he  had  not 
been  thinking  of  me  at  all,  but  of  his  own 
young  days,  when  that  couplet  sang  in 
his  head,  and  he,  too,  had  thirsted  to  set 
off  for  Grub  Street,  but  was  afraid,  and 
while  he  hesitated  old  age  came,  and  then 
Death,  and  found  him  grasping  a  box- 
iron. 

I  hurried  home  with  the  mouthful,  but 
neighbours  had  dropped  in,  and  this  was 
for   her  ears  only,  so  I  drew   her  to  the 

stair,  and  said  imperiously, 
54 


WHAT   I   SHOULD   BE 

*What  can  I  do  to  be  for  ever  known. 
And  make  the  age  to  come  my  own  ? ' 

It  was  an  odd  request  for  which  to  draw 
her  from  a  tea-table,  and  she  must  have 
been  surprised,  but  I  think  she  did  not 
laugh,  and  in  after  years  she  would  repeat 
the  lines  fondly,  with  a  flush  on  her  soft 
face.  ^  That  is  the  kind  you  would  like  to 
be  yourself! '  we  would  say  in  jest  to  her, 
and  she  would  reply  almost  passionately, 
^  No,  but  I  would  be  windy  of  being  his 
mother/  It  is  possible  that  she  could 
have  been  his  mother  had  that  other  son 
lived,  he  might  have  managed  it  from 
sheer  love  of  her,  but  for  my  part  I  can 
smile  at  one  of  those  two  figures  on  the 
stair  now,  having  long  given  up  the  dream 
of  being  for  ever  known,  and  seeing  my- 
self more  akin  to  my  friend,  the  tailor,  for 
as  he  was  found  at  the  end  on  his  board, 
so  I  hope  shall  I  be  found  at  my  hand- 
55 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

loom,  doing  honestly  the  work  that  suits 

me  best.     Who  shall  know  so  well  as  I 

that  it  is  but  a  handloom  compared  to  the 

great  guns   that  reverberate   through   the 

age  to   come  ?     But  she  who  stood  with 

me  on  the  stair  that  day  was  a  very  simple 

woman,  accustomed  all  her  life  to  making 

the  most  of  small  things,  and  I  weaved 

sufficiently  well  to  please  her,  which  has 

been  my  only  steadfast  ambition  since   I 

was  a  little  boy. 

Not  less  than  mine  became  her  desire 

that  I  should  have  my  way  —  but,  ah,  the 

iron  seats  in  that  Park  of  horrible  repute, 

and  that  bare  room  at  the  top  of  many 

flights   of  stairs  !     While   I  was  away  at 

college   she  drained  all   available  libraries 

for  books  about  those  who  go  to  London 

to  live  by  the  pen,  and  they  all  told  the 

same  shuddering    tale.      London,    which 

she  never  saw,  was  to  her  a  monster  that 
56 


WHAT   I   SHOULD    BE 

licked  up  country  youths  as  they  stepped 
from  the  train  ;  there  were  the  garrets  in 
which  they  sat  abject,  and  the  park  seats 
where  they  passed  the  night.  Those  park 
seats  were  the  monster's  glaring  eyes  to 
her,  and  as  I  go  by  them  now  she  is 
nearer  to  me  than  when  I  am  in  any  other 
part  of  London.  I  daresay  that  when 
night  comes,  this  Hyde  Park  which  is  so 
gay  by  day,  is  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of 
many  mothers,  who  run,  wild-eyed,  from 
seat  to  seat,  looking  for  their  sons. 

But^  if  we  could  dodge  those  dreary  seats 
she  longed  to  see  me  try  my  luck,  and  I 
sought  to  exclude  them  from  the  picture 
by  drawing  maps  of  London  with  Hyde 
Park  left.^out.  London  was  as  strange 
to  me  as  to  her,  but  long  before  I  was 
shot  upon  it  I  knew  it  by  maps,  and  drew 
them  more  accurately  than  I   could  draw 

them  now.     Many  a  time  she  and  I  took 

57 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

our  jaunt  together  through  the  map,  and 
were  most  gleeful,  popping  into  telegraph 
offices  to  wire  my  father  and  sister  that  we 
should  not  be  home  till  late,  winking  to 
my  books  in  lordly  shop-windows,  lunch- 
ing at  restaurants  (and  remembering  not 
to  call  it  dinner),  saying,  ^  How  do  ? '  to 
Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson  when  we  passed  him 
in  Regent  Street,  calling  at  publishers' 
offices  for  a  cheque,  when  ^  Will  you  take 
care  of  it,  or  shall  I  ? '  I  asked  gaily,  and 
she  would  be  certain  to  reply,  ^  I  'm  think- 
ing we  'd  better  take  it  to  the  bank  and 
get  the  money,'  for  she  always  felt  surer 
of  money  than  of  cheques,  so  to  the  bank 
we  went  (^  Two  tens,  and  the  rest  in 
gold '),  and  thence  straightway  (by  cab)  to 
the  place  where  you  buy  sealskin  coats 
for  middling  old  ladies.  But  ere  the 
laugh   was    done    the   park   would   come 

through  the  map  like  a  blot. 
58 


WHAT   I   SHOULD    BE 

*  If  you  could  only  be  sure  of  as  much 
as  would  keep  body  and  soul  together,' 
my  mother  would  say  with  a  sigh. 

^  With  something  over,  mother,  to  send 
to  you/ 

^  You  couldna  expect  that  at  the  start.' 

The  wench  I  should  have  been  courting 
now  was  journalism,  that  grisette  of  litera- 
ture who  has  a  smile  and  a  hand  for  all 
beginners,  welcoming  them  at  the  thres- 
hold, teaching  them  so  much  that  is  worth 
knowing,  introducing  them  to  the  other 
lady  whom  they  have  worshipped  from 
afar,  showing  them  even  how  to  woo  her, 
and  then  bidding  them  a  bright  God- 
speed —  he  were  an  ingrate  who,  having 
had  her  joyous  companionship,  no  longer 
flings  her  a  kiss  as  they  pass.  But  though 
she  bears  no  ill-will  when  she  is  jilted, 
you  must  serve  faithfully  while  you   are 

hers,  and  you  must  seek  her  out  and  make 
59 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

much  of  her,  and,  until  you  can  rely  on 

her  good-nature   (note   this),  not  a  word 

about  the  other  lady.     When  at  last  she 

took  me  in  I  grew  so  fond  of  her  that  I 

called  her  by  the  other's  name,  and  even 

now  I  think  at  times  that  there  was  more 

fun  in  the   little   sister,   but   I    began   by 

wooing  her  with  contributions   that  were 

all  misfits.     In  an  old  book  I  find  columns 

of  notes    about   works    projected   at   this 

time,  nearly  all   to  consist   of  essays    on 

deeply  uninteresting  subjects;  the  lightest 

was  to  be  a  volume  on  the  older  satirists, 

beginning  with  Skelton  and  Tom  Nash  — 

the  half  of  that  manuscript  still  lies  in  a 

dusty  chest  —  the    only    story  was  about 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  who  was  also  the 

subject  of  many  unwritten  papers.     Queen 

Mary  seems  to  have  been  luring  me  to  my 

undoing  ever  since  I  saw  Holyrood,  and  I 

have  a  horrid  fear  that  I  may  write  that 
60 


WHAT   I    SHOULD    BE 

novel  yet.  That  anything  could  be  written 
about  my  native  place  never  struck  me. 
We  had  read  somewhere  that  a  novelist 
is  better  equipped  than  most  of  his  trade 
if  he  knows  himself  and  one  woman,  and  my 
mother  said,  ^  You  know  yourself,  for  every- 
body must  know  himself  (there  never  was 
a  woman  who  knew  less  about  herself  than 
she),  and  she  would  add  dolefully,  ^  But  I 
doubt  I  'm  the  only  woman  you  know  well.' 

^  Then  I  must  make  you  my  heroine,' 
I  said  lightly. 

^  A  gey  auld-farrant-like  heroine  ! '  she 
said,  and  we  both  laughed  at  the  notion  — 
so  little  did  we  read  the  future. 

Thus  it  is  obvious  what  were  my  qualifi- 
cations when  I  was  rashly  engaged  as 
a  leader-writer  (it  was  my  sister  who  saw 
the  advertisement)  on  an  English  pro- 
vincial paper.     At  the  moment  I  was  as 

uplifted  as  the  others,  for  the  chance  had 
6i 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

come  at  last,  with  what  we  all  regarded 
as  a  prodigious  salary,  but  I  was  wanted 
in  the  beginning  of  the  week,  and  it 
suddenly  struck  me  that  the  leaders  were 
the  one  thing  I  had  always  skipped. 
Leaders  !  How  were  they  written  ?  what 
were  they  about?  My  mother  was  al- 
ready sitting  triumphant  among  my  socks, 
and  I  durst  not  let  her  see  me  quak- 
ing. ^  I  retired  to  ponder,  and  presently 
she  came  to  me  with  the  daily  paper. 
Which  were  the  leaders?  she  wanted  to 
know,  so  evidently  I  could  get  no  help 
from  her.  Had  she  any  more  newspapers  ? 
I  asked,  and  after  rummaging,  she  pro- 
duced a  few  with  which  her  boxes  had 
been  lined.  Others,  very  dusty,  came 
from  beneath  carpets,  and  lastly  a  sooty 
bundle  was  dragged  down  the  chimney. 
Surrounded    by  these    I    sat   down,    and 

studied  how  to  become  a  journalist. 
62 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN    EDITOR 

A  DEVOUT  lady,  to  whom  some  friend  had 
presented  one  of  my  books,  used  to  say 
when  asked  how  she  was  getting  on  with 
it,  ^  Sal,  it 's  dreary,  weary,  uphill  work,  but 
I  Ve  wrastled  through  with  tougher  jobs 
In  my  time,  and,  please  God,  I  '11  wrastle 
through  with  this  one/  It  was  in  this  spirit 
I  fear,  though  she  never  told  me  so,  that  my 
mother  wrestled  for  the  next  year  or  more 
with  my  leaders,  and  indeed  I  was  always 
genuinely  sorry  for  the  people  I  saw  read- 
ing them.  In  my  spare  hours  I  was  trying 
journalism  of  another  kind  and  sending  it 
to    London,  but  nearly   eighteen   months 

elapsed  before  there  came  to  me,  as  un- 
63 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

looked  for  as  a  telegram,  the  thought  that 
there  was  something  quaint  about  my 
native  place.  A  boy  who  found  that  a 
knife  had  been  put  into  his  pocket  in  the 
night  could  not  have  been  more  surprised. 
A  few  days  afterwards  I  sent  my  mother 
a  London  evening  paper  with  an  article 
entitled  ^  An  Auld  Licht  Community/  and 
they  told  me  that  when  she  saw  the  head- 
ing she  laughed,  because  there  was  some- 
thing droll  to  her  in  the  sight  of  the  words 
Auld  Licht  in  print.  For  her,  as  for  me, 
that  newspaper  was  soon  to  have  the  face  of 
a  friend.  To  this  day  I  never  pass  its  pla- 
cards in  the  street  without  shaking  it  by 
the  hand,  and  she  used  to  sew  its  pages 
together  as  lovingly  as  though  they  were 
a  child's  frock ;  but  let  the  truth  be  told, 
when  she  read  that  first  article  she  be- 
came alarmed,  and  fearing  the  talk  of  the 

town,  hid  the  paper  from  all  eyes.      For 
64 


AN   EDITOR 

some  time  afterwards,  while  I  proudly 
pictured  her  showing  this  and  similar  arti- 
cles to  all  who  felt  an  interest  in  me,  she 
was  really  concealing  them  fearfully  in  a 
bandbox  on  the  garret  stair.  And  she 
wanted  to  know  by  return  of  post  whether 
I  was  paid  for  these  articles  just  as  I  was 
paid  for  real  articles ;  when  she  heard 
that  I  was  paid  better,  she  laughed  again 
and  had  them  out  of  the  bandbox  for 
re-reading,  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
she  thought  the  London  editor  a  fine 
fellow  but  slightly  soft. 

When  I  sent  off  that  first  sketch  I 
thought  I  had  exhausted  the  subject,  but 
our  editor  wrote  that  he  would  like  some- 
thing more  of  the  same,  so  I  sent  him  a 
marriage,  and  he  took  it,  and  then  I  tried 
him  with  a  funeral,  and  he  took  it,  and 
really  it  began  to  look  as  if  we  had  him. 

Now  my  mother  might  have  been  discov- 
5  65 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

ered,  in  answer  to  certain  excited  letters, 
flinging  the  bundle  of  undarned  socks  from 
her  lap,  and  ^  going  in  for  literature  ' ;  she 
was  racking  her  brains,  by  request,  for 
memories  I  might  convert  into  articles,  and 
they  came  to  me  in  letters  which  she  dic- 
tated to  my  sisters.  How  well  I  could 
hear  her  saying  between  the  lines  :  *  But 
the  editor-man  will  never  stand  that,  it 's 

perfect  blethers  ' ^  By  this  post  it  must 

go,  I  tell  you  ;  we  must  take  the  editor  when 
he  's  hungry  — we  canna  be  blamed  for  it, 
can  we  ?  he  prints  them  of  his  free  will,  so 
the  wite  is  his ' ^  But  I  'm  near  terri- 
fied. —  If  London  folk  reads  them  we  're 
done  for.'  And  I  was  sounded  as  to  the 
advisability  of  sending  him  a  present  of  a 
lippie  of  short-bread,  which  was  to  be  her 
crafty  way  of  .getting  round  him.  By  this 
time,  though  my  mother  and  I  were  hun- 
dreds of  miles  apart,  you  may  picture  us 
66 


AN   EDITOR 

waving  our  hands  to  each  other  across  coun- 
try, and  shouting  ^  Hurrah  ! '  You  may 
also  picture  the  editor  in  his  office  thinking 
he  was  behaving  like  a  shrewd  man  of 
business,  and  unconscious  that  up  in  the 
north  there  was  an  elderly  lady  chuckling 
so  much  at  him  that  she  could  scarcely 
scrape  the  potatoes. 

I  was  now  able  to  see  my  mother  again, 
and  the  park  seats  no  longer  loomed  so 
prominent  in  our  map  of  London.  Still, 
there  they  were,  and  it  was  with  an  effort 
that  she  summoned  up  courage  to  let  me 
go.  She  feared  changes,  and  who  could 
tell  that  the  editor  would  continue  to  be 
kind  ?     Perhaps  when  he  saw  me  — 

She  seemed  to  be  very  much  afraid  of 

his  seeing  me,  and  this,  I  would  point  out, 

was  a  reflection  on  my  appearance  or  my 

manner. 

No,  what  she  meant  was  that  I  looked 
67 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

so  young,  and  —  and  that  would  take  him 
aback,  for  had  I  not  written  as  an  aged 
man  ? 

^  But  he  knows  my  age,  mother/ 

^  I  'm  glad  of  that,  but  maybe  he  wouldna 
like  you  when  he  saw  you.' 

'  Oh,  it  is  my  manner,  then  ! ' 

^  I  dinna  say  that,  but  — : — ' 

Here  my  sister  would  break  in  :  ^  The 
short  and  the  long  of  it  is  just  this,  she 
thinks  nobody  has  such  manners  as  her- 
self.   Can  you  deny  it,  you  vain  woman  ? ' 

My  mother  would  deny  it  vigorously. 

^  You  stand  there,'  my  sister  would  say 
with  affected  scorn,  ^  and  tell  me  you  don't 
think  you  could  get  the  better  of  that  man 
quicker  than  any  of  us  ? ' 

^  Sal,  I  'm  thinking  I  could  manage 
him,'  says  my  mother,  with  a  chuckle. 

*  How  would  you  set  about  it  ? ' 

Then  my  mother  would  begin  to  laugh. 
68 


AN   EDITOR 

^  I  would  find  out  first  if  he  had  a  family, 
and  then  I  would  say  they  were  the  finest 
family  in  London.' 

^  Yes,  that  is  just  what  you  would  do, 
you  cunning  woman !  But  if  he  has  no 
family  ? ' 

^  I  would  say  what  great  men  editors  are ! ' 

*  He  would  see  through  you/ 

'  Not  he  ! ' 

'You  don't  understand  that  what  im- 
poses on  common  folk  would  never  hood- 
wink an  editor.' 

'  That 's  where  you  are  wrong.  Gentle 
or  simple,  stupid  or  clever,  the  men  are  all 
alike  in  the  hands  of  a  woman  that  flatters 
them.' 

'  Ah,  I  'm  sure  there  are  better  ways  of 
getting  round  an  editor  than  that.' 

'  I  daresay  there  are,'  my  mother  would 

say  with  conviction,  '  but  if  you  try  that 

plan  you  will  never  need  to  try  another.' 
69 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

^^  How  artful  you  are,  mother — you  with 
your  soft  face  !    Do  you  not  think  shame  ? ' 

^  Pooh  ! '  says  my  mother  brazenly. 

^  I  can  see  the  reason  why  you  are  so 
popular  with  men/ 

^  Ay,  you  can  see  it,  but  they  never  will/ 

*  Well,  how  would  you  dress  yourself  if 
you  were  going  to  that  editor's  office  ? ' 

^  Of  course  I  would  wear  my  silk  and 
my  Sabbath  bonnet/ 

^  It  is  you  who  are  shortsighted  now, 
mother.  I  tell  you,  you  would  manage 
him  better  if  you  just  put  on  your  old 
grey  shawl  and  one  of  your  bonny  white 
mutches,  and  went  in  half  smiling  and 
half  timid  and  said,  "  I  am  the  mother  of 
him  that  writes  about  the  Auld  Lichts, 
and  I  want  you  to  promise  that  he  will 
never  have  to  sleep  in  the  open  air." ' 

But  my  mother  would  shake   her  head 

at  this,  and  reply  almost  hotly,  ^  I  tell  you 
70 


AN   EDITOR 

if  I  ever  go  into  that  man's  office,  I  go  in 
silk; 

I  wrote  and  asked  the  editor  if  I  should 
come  to  London,  and  he  said  No,  so  I 
went,  laden  with  charges  from  my  mother 
to  walk  in  the  middle  of  the  street  (they 
jump  out  on  you  as  you  are  turning  a 
corner),  never  to  venture  forth  after  sun- 
set, and  always  to  lock  up  everything  (I 
who  could  never  lock  up  anything,  except 
my  heart  in  company).  Thanks  to  this 
editor,  for  the  others  would  have  nothing 
to  say  to  me  though  I  battered  on  all 
their  doors,  she  was  soon  able  to  sleep 
at  nights  without  the  dread  that  I  should 
be  waking  presently  with  the  iron-work  of 
certain  seats  figured -^  on  my  person,  and 
what  relieved  her  very  much  was  that  I 
haH  begun  to  write  as  if  Auld  Lichts  were 
not  the  only  people  I  knew  of.     So  long  as 

I  confined  myself  to  them  she  had  a  haunt- 
7t 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

ing  fear  that,  even  though  the  editor  re- 
mained blind  to  his  best  interests,  some- 
thing would  one  day  go  crack  within  me  (as 
the  mainspring  of  a  watch  breaks)  and  my 
pen  refuse  to  write  for  evermore.  ^  Ay,  I 
like  the  article  brawly,'  she  would  say 
timidly,  ^  but  I  'm  doubting  it 's  the  last  — 
I  always  have  a  sort  of  terror  the  new  one 
may  be  the  last,'  and  if  many  days  elapsed 
before  the  arrival  of  another  article  her 
face  would  say  mournfully,  ^  The  blow  has 
fallen  —  he  can  think  of  nothing  more  to 
write  about/  If  I  ever  shared  her  fears  I 
never  told  her  so,  and  the  articles  that 
were  not  Scotch  grew  in  number  until 
there  were  hundreds  of  them,  all  carefully 
preserved  by  her :  they  were  the  only  thing 
in  the  house  that,  having  served  one  pur- 
pose, she  did  not  convert  into  something 
else,    yet    they    could    give    her    uneasy 

moments.       This   was    because    I    nearly 

72 


AN   EDITOR 

always  assumed  a  character  when  I  wrote ; 
I  must  be  a  country  squire,  or  an  under- 
graduate, or  a  butler,  or  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Lords,  or  a  dowager,  or  a  lady 
called  Sweet  Seventeen,  or  an  engineer  in 
India,  else  was  my  pen  clogged,  and  though 
this  gave  my  mother  certain  fearful  joys, 
causing  her  to  laugh  unexpectedly  (so  far 
as  my  articles  were  concerned  she  nearly 
always  laughed  in  the  wrong  place),  it 
also  scared  her.  Much  to  her  amuse- 
ment the  editor  continued  to  prefer  the 
Auld  Licht  papers,  however,  as  was 
proved  (to  those  who  knew  him)  by  his 
way  of  thinking  that  the  others  would 
pass  as  they  were,  while  he  sent  these 
back  and  asked  me  to  make  them  better. 
Here  again  she  came  to  my  aid.  I  had 
said  that  the  row  of  stockings  were  hung 
on  a  string  by  the  fire,  which  was  a  recol- 
lection of  my  own,  but  she  could  tell 
73 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

me  whether  they  were  hung  upside  down. 

She  became    quite    skilful   at   sending  or 

giving  me  (for  now  I  could  be  with  her 

half  the  year)  the   right  details,  but  still 

she  smiled  at  the  editor,  and  in   her  gay 

^nix)ods^she  would  say,  ^  I  was  fifteen  when 

I  got  my  first^air  of  elastic-sided  boots. 

Tell   him   my   charge   for  this  important 

news  is  two  pounds  ten.' 

^  Ay,  but  though  we  're  doing  well,  it 's 

no  the  same  as  if  they  were  a  book  with 

your  name  on  it.'    So  the  ambitious  woman 

would  say  with  a  sigh,  and  I  did  my  best 

to  turn  the  Auld   Licht  sketches^,  into  a 

book  with  my  name  on  it.     Then  perhaps 

we   understood    most    fully    how   good  a 

friend  our  editor  had  been,  for  just  as  I 

had   been    able    to    find    no    well-known 

magazine  —  and  I  think  I  tried  all  — which 

would  print  any  article  or  story  about  the 

poor  of  my  native  land,  so  now  the  pub- 
74 


AN   EDITOR 

lishers,  Scotch  and  English,  refused  to 
accept  the  book  as  a  gift.  I  was  willing 
to  present  it  to  them,  but  they  would 
have  it  in  no  guise  ;  there  seemed  to  be 
a  blight  on  everything  that  was  Scotch. 
I  daresay  we  sighed,  but  never  were  collabo- 
rators more  prepared  for  rejection,  and 
though  my  mother  might  look  wistfully 
at  the  scorned  manuscript  at  times  and 
murmur,  ^  You  poor  cold  little  crittur  shut 
away  in  a  drawer,  are  you  dead  or  just 
sleeping  ? '  she  had  still  her  editor  to  say 
grace  over.  And  at  last  publishers,  suffi- 
ciently daring  and  far  more  than  sufficiently 
generous,  were  found  for  us  by  a  dear 
friend,  who  made  one  wornan  very  ^  up- 
lifted.' He  also  was  an  editor,  and  had 
as  large  a  part  in  making  me  a  writer  of 
books  as  the  other  in  determining  what 
the  books  should  be  about. 

Now  that  I  was  an  author  I  must  get 
75 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

into  a  club.  But  you  should  have  heard 
my  mother  on  clubs  !  She  knew  of  none 
save  those  to  which  you  subscribe  a  pit- 
tance weekly  in  anticipation  of  rainy  days, 
and  the  London  clubs  were  her  scorn. 
Often  I  heard  her  on  them  —  she  raised 
her  voice  to  make  me  hear,  whichever 
room  I  might  be  in,  and  it  was  when 
she  was  sarcastic  that  I  skulked  the 
most :  ^  Thirty  pounds  is  what  he  will 
have  to  pay  the  first  year,  and  ten 
pounds  a  year  after  that.  You  think 
it 's  a  lot  o'  siller  ?  Oh,  no,  you  're 
mistaken  —  it 's  nothing  ava.  For  the 
third  part  of  thirty  pounds  you  could 
rent  a  four-roomed  house,  but  what  is 
a  four-roomed  house,  what  is  thirty 
pounds,  compared  to  the  glory  of  being 
a  member  of  a  club !  Where  does  the 
glory    come    in  ?      Sal,    you    needna    ask 

me,  I  'm  just   a   doited    auld   stock    that 
76 


AN   EDITOR 

never  set  foot  In  a  club,  so  it's  little 
I  ken  about  glory.  But  I  may  tell 
you  if  you  bide  in  London  and  canna 
become  member  of  a  club,  the  best  you 
can  do  is  to  tie  a  rope  round  your  neck 
and  slip  out  of  the  world.  What  use  are 
they  ?  Oh,  they  're  terrible  useful.  You 
see  it  doesna  do  for  a  man  in  London  to 
eat  his  dinner  in  his  lodgings.  Other 
men  shake  their  heads  at  him.  He  maun 
away  to  his  club  if  he  is  to  be  respected. 
Does  he  get  good  dinners  at  the  club  ? 
Oh,  they  cow !  You  get  no  common 
beef  at  clubs  ;  there  is  a  manzy  of  differ- 
ent things  all  sauced  up  to  be  unlike 
themsels.  Even  the  potatoes  daurna  look 
like  potatoes.  If  the  food  in  a  club  looks 
like  what  it  is,  the  members  run  about, 
flinging  up  their  hands  and  crying,  "  Woe 
Is  me ! "  Then  this  Is  another  thing, 
you  get  your  letters  sent  to  the  club 
77 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

instead  of  to  your  lodgings.  You  see  you 
would  get  them  sooner  at  your  lodgings, 
and  you  may  have  to  trudge  weary  miles 
to  the  club  for  them,  but  that 's  a  great  ad- 
vantage, and  cheap  at  thirty  pounds,  is  it 
no  ?     I  wonder  they  can  do  it  at  the  price/ 

My  wisest  policy  was  to  remain  down- 
stairs when  these  withering  blasts  were 
blowing,  but  probably  I  went  up  in  self- 
defence. 

^  I  never  saw  you  so  pugnacious  before, 
mother/ 

*  Oh,'  she  would  reply  promptly,  '  you 
canna  expect  me  to  be  sharp  in  the  uptake 
when  I  am  no  a  member  of  a  club/ 

^  But  the  difficulty  is  in  becoming  a 
member.  They  are  very  particular  about 
whom  they  elect,  and  I  daresay  I  shall 
not  get  in.' 

'  Well,    I  'm    but   a   poor   crittur   (not 

being  member  of  a  club),  but  I  think  I 
78 


AN   EDITOR 

can  tell  you  to  make  your  mind  easy  on 
that  head.  You  '11  get  in,  I  'se  uphaud 
—  and  your  thirty  pounds  will  get  in,  too.' 

*  If  I  get  in  it  will  be  because  the  editor 
is  supporting  me.' 

^  It 's  the  first  ill  thing  I  ever  heard 
of  him.' 

^  You  don't  think  he  is  to  get  any  of  the 
thirty  pounds,  do  you  ? ' 

^'Deed  if  I  did  I  should  be  better 
pleased,  for  he  has  been  a  good  friend  to 
us,  but  what  maddens  me  is  that  every 
penny  of  it  should  go  to  those  bare-faced 
scoundrels.' 

*  What  bare-faced  scoundrels  ? ' 

*  Them  that  have  the  club.' 

^  But  all  the  members  have  the  club 
between  them.' 

*  Havers  !  I  'm  no  to  be  catched  with 
chaff.' 

*  But  don't  you  believe  me  ? ' 

79 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

'  I  believe  they ' ve  filled  your  head  with 
their  stories  till  you  swallow  whatever 
they  tell  you.  If  the  place  belongs  to  the 
members,  why  do  they  have  to  pay  thirty 
pounds  ? ' 

^  To  keep  it  going/ 

^  They  dinna  have  to  pay  for  their 
dinners,  then  ? ' 

^  Oh,  yes,  they  have  to  pay  extra  for 
dinner.' 

*  And  a  gey  black  price,  I  'm  thinking.' 

^  Well,  five  or  six  shillings.' 

^  Is  that  all  ?  Losh,  it 's  nothing.  I 
wonder  they  dinna  raise  the  price.' 

Nevertheless  my  mother  was  of  a  sex 

that    scorned    prejudice,    and,    dropping 

sarcasm,  she  would  at  times  cross-examine 

me  as  if  her  mind  was  not  yet  made  up. 

'  Tell  me  this,  if  you  were  to  fall  ill,  would 

you  be  paid  a  weekly  allowance  out  of  the 

club?' 

80 


AN   EDITOR 

No,  it  was  not  that  kind  of  club. 

^  I  see.  Well,  I  am  just  trying  to  find 
out  what  kind  of  club  it  is.  Do  you  get 
anything  out  of  it  for  accidents  ? ' 

Not  a  penny. 

^  Anything  at  New  Year's  time  ?  * 

Not  so  much  as  a  goose. 

^  Is  there  any  one  mortal  thing  you  get 
free  out  of  that  club  ? ' 

There  was  not  one  mortal  thing. 

*  And  thirty  pounds  is  what  you  pay  for 
this  ? ' 

If  the  committee  elected  me. 

^  How  many  are  in  the  committee  ? ' 

About  a  dozen  I  thought. 

^  A  dozen !  Ay,  ay,  that  makes  two 
pound  ten  apiece.' 

When  I  was  elected  I  thought  it  wisdom 

to  send  my  sister  upstairs  with  the  news. 

My  mother   was    ironing,  and    made    no 

comment,  unless  with  the  iron,  which   I 
6  8i 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

could  hear  rattling  more  violently  in  its 
box.  Presently  I  heard  her  laughing  — 
at  me  undoubtedly,  but  she  had  recovered 
control  over  her  face  before  she  came  down- 
stairs to  congratulate  me  sarcastically. 
This  was  grand  news,  she  said  without  a 
twinkle,  and  I  must  write  and  thank  the 
committee,  the  noble  critturs.  I  saw  be- 
hind her  mask,  and  maintained  a  digni- 
fied silence,  but  she  would  have  another 
shot  at  me.  ^  And  tell  them,'  she  said 
from  the  door,  ^  you  were  doubtful  of  being 
elected,  but  your  auld  mother  had  aye  a 
mighty  confidence  they  would  snick  you  in.* 
I  heard  her  laughing  softly  as  she  went  up 
the  stair,  but  though  I  had  provided  her 
with  a  joke  I  knew  she  was  burning  to  tell 
the  committee  what  she  thought'  of  them. 
Money,  you  see,  meant  so  much  to  her, 
though  even  at  her  poorest  she  was  the 

most   cheerful   giver.     In   the   old   days, 
82 


AN   EDITOR 

when  the  article  arrived,  she  did  not  read 
it  at  once,  she  first  counted  the  lines  to 
discover  what  we  should  get  for  it  —  she 
and  the  daughter  who  was  so  dear  to 
her  had  calculated  the  payment  per  line, 
and  I  remember  once  overhearing  a  dis- 
cussion between  them  about  whether  that 
sub-title  meant  another  sixpence.  Yes, 
she  knew  the  value  of  money  ;  she  had 
always  in  the  end  got  the  things  she 
wanted,  but  now  she  could  get  them  more 
easily,  and  it  turned  her  simple  life  into 
a  fairy  tale.  So  often  in  those  days  she 
went  down  suddenly  upon  her  knees ;  we 
would  come  upon  her  thus,  and  go  away 
noiselessly.  After  her  death  I  found  that 
she  had  preserved  in  a  little  box,  with  a 
photograph  of  me  as  a  child,  the  en- 
velopes which  had  contained  my  first 
cheques.  There  was  a  little  ribbon  round 
them. 

83 


CHAPTER    V 


A    DAY    OF    HER    LIFE 


I  SHOULD  like  to  call  back  a  day  of  her 
life  as  it  was  at  this  time,  when  her  spirit 
was  as  bright  as  ever  and  her  hand  as 
eager,  but  she  was  no  longer  able  to  do 
much  work.  It  should  not  be  difficult, 
for  she  repeated  herself  from  day  to  day 
and  yet  did  it  with  a  quaint  unreasonable- 
ness that  was  ever  yielding  fresh  delight. 
Our  love  for  her  was  such  that  we  could 
easily  tell  what  she  would  do  in  given 
circumstances,  but  she  had  always  a  new 
way  of  doing  it. 

Well,  with  break  of  day  she  wakes  and 
sits   up    in  bed   and    is    standing   in    the 

middle  of  the  room.     So  nimble  was  she 
84 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

in  the  mornings  (one  of  our  troubles 
with  her)  that  these  three  actions  must 
be  considered  as  one ;  she  Is  on  the  floor 
before  you  have  time  to  count  them.  She 
has  strict  orders  not  to  rise  until  her 
fire  is  lit,  and  having  broken  them  there 
is  a  demure  elation  on  her  face.  The 
question  is  what  to  do  before  she  is 
caught  and  hurried  to  bed  again.  Her 
fingers  are  tingling  to  prepare  the  break- 
fast ;  she  would  dearly  love  to  black-lead 
the  grate,  but  that  might  rouse  her  daugh- 
ter from  whose  side  she  has  slipped  so  cun- 
ningly. She  catches  sight  of  the  screen 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  immediately 
her  soft  face  becomes  very  determined. 
To  guard  her  from  draughts  the  screen 
had  been  brought  here  from  the  lordly 
east  room,  where  it  was  of  no  use  what- 
ever.      But   in    her    opinion    it    was    too 

beautiful  for  use  ;  it  belonged  to  the  east 
85 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

room,  where  she  could  take  pleasant  peeps 
at  it ;  she  had  objected  to  Its  removal,  even 
become  low-spirited.  Now  is  her  oppor- 
tunity. The  screen  is  an  unwieldly  thing, 
but  still  as  a  mouse  she  carries  it,  and 
they  are  well  under  way  when  it  strikes 
against  the  gas-bracket  in  the  passage. 
Next  moment  a  reproachful  hand  arrests 
her.  She  is  challenged  with  being  out  of 
bed,  she  denies  it  —  standing  in  the 
passage.  Meekly  or  stubbornly  she  re- 
turns to  bed,  and  it  is  no  satisfaction  to 
you  that  you  can  say,  ^  Well,  well,  of  all 
the  women  ! '  and  so  on,  or  ^  Surely  you 
knew  that  the  screen  was  brought  here  to 
protect  you,'  for  she  will  reply  scornfully, 
'  Who  was  touching  the  screen  ? ' 

By  this  time  I  have  awakened  (I  am 
through  the  wall)  and  join  them  anxiously  : 
so  often  has  my  mother  been  taken  ill  in 

the    night  that  the   slightest  sound   from 
S6 


A   DAY    OF   HER   LIFE 

her  room  rouses  the  house.  She  is  in 
bed  again,  looking  as  if  she  had  never 
been  out  of  it,  but  I  know  her  and  Hsten 
sternly  to  the  tale  of  her  misdoings.  She 
is  not  contrite.  Yes,  maybe  she  did  pro- 
mise not  to  venture  forth  on  the  cold 
floors  of  daybreak,  but  she  had  risen  for 
a  moment  only,  and  we  just  t'neaded  her 
with  our  talk  about  draughts  —  there  were 
no  such  things  as  draughts  in  her  young 
days — and  it  is  more  than  she  can  do  (here 
she  again  attempts  to  rise  but  we  hold 
her  down)  to  lie  there  and  watch  that 
beautiful  screen  being  spoilt.  I  reply 
that  the  beauty  of  the  screen  has  ever 
been  its  miserable  defect :  ho,  there !  for 
a  knife  with  which  to  spoil  its  beauty  and 
make  the  bedroom  its  fitting  home.  As 
there  is  no  knife  handy,  my  foot  will  do ;  I 
raise  my  foot,  and  then  —  she  sees  that  it 

is  bare,  she  cries  to    me  excitedly  to    go 

87 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

back  to  bed  lest  I  catch  cold.     For  though, 

ever  careless  of  herself,  she  will    wander 

the  house  unshod,  and  tell  us  not  to  talk 

havers  when  we  chide    her,  the   sight    of 

one    of  us  similarly  negligent  rouses    her 

anxiety  at   once.     She    is  willing   now  to 

sign  any  vow  if  only  I  will   take  my  bare 

feet  back  to  bed,  but  probably  she  is  soon 

after  me  in  hers  to  make  sure  that  I  am 

nicely  covered  up. 

It  is  scarcely  six  o'clock,  and  we  have 

all    promised   to    sleep  for   another  hour, 

but  in  ten  minutes  she  is  sure  that  eight 

has  struck  (house  disgraced),  or  that  if  it 

has    not,    something   is   wrong   with    the 

clock.     Next  moment  she  is  captured  on 

her  way  downstairs  to  wind  up  the  clock. 

So  evidently  we  must  be  up  and  doing, 

and    as   we    have    no    servant,    my   sister 

disappears  into  the    kitchen,  having   first 

asked  me  to   see  that  ^that  woman'  lies 
88 


A    DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

still,  and  ^  that  woman '  calls  out  that  she 
always  does  lie  still,  so  what  are  we  bleth- 
ering about  ? 

She  is  up  now,  and  dressed  in  her  thick 
maroon  wrapper ;  over  her  shoulders  (lest 
she  should  stray  despite  our  watchfulness) 
is  a  shawl,  not  placed  there  by  her  own 
hands,  and  on  her  head  a  delicious  mutch. 
O,  that  I  could  sing  the  paean  of  the 
white  mutch  (and  the  dirge  of  the  elabo- 
rate black  cap)  from  the  day  when  she 
called  witSRraft  to  her  aid  and  made  it 
out  of  snow-flakes,  and  the  dear  worn 
hands  that  washed  it  tenderly  in  a  basin, 
and  the  starching  of  it,  and  the  finger-iron 
for  its  exquisite  frills  that  looked  like  curls 
of  sugar,  and  the  sweet  bands  with  which 
it  tied  beneath  the  chin  !  The  honoured 
snowy  mutch,  how  I  love  to  see  it  smiling 
to  me  from  the  doors  and  windows  of  the 

poor ;   it   is    always    smiling  —  sometimes 
89 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

may  be  a  wavering  wistful  smile,  as  if  a 
tear-drop  lay  hidden  among  the  frills.  A 
hundred  times  I  have  taken  the  character- 
less cap  from  my  mother's  head  and  put 
the  mutch  in  its  place  and  tied  the  bands 
beneath  her  chin,  while  she  protested  but 
was  well  pleased.  For  in  her  heart  she 
knew  what  suited  her  best  and  would 
admit  it,  beaming,  when  I  put  a  mirror 
into  her  hands  and  told  ,her  to  look ;  but 
nevertheless  the  cap  cost  no  l^s  than  so 

and  so,  whereas Was  th^^  knock  at 

the  door  ?  She  is  gone,  to  put  on  her 
cap  ! 

She  begins  the  day  by  the  fireside  with 
the  New  Testament  in  her  hands,  an  old 
volume  with  its  loose  pages  beautifully  re- 
fixed,  and  its  covers  sewn  and  resewn  by 
her,  so  that  you  would  say  it  can  never 
fall  to  pieces.     It  is  mine  now,  and  to  me 

the  black  threads  with  which  she  stitched 
90  ^ 


A   DAY   OF    HER   LIFE 

it  are  as  part  of  the  contents.  Other 
books  she  read  in  the  ordinary  manner, 
but  this  one  differently,  her  lips  moving 
with  each  word  as  if  she  were  reading 
aloud,  and  her  face  very  solemn.  The 
Testament  lies  open  on  her  lap  long  after 
she  has  ceased  to  read,  and  the  expression 
of  her  face  has  not  changed. 

I  have  seen  her  reading  other  books 
early  in  the  day  but  never  without  a  guilty 
look  on  her  face,  for  she  thought  reading 
was  scarce  respectable  until  night  had 
come.  She  spends  the  forenoon  in  what 
she  calls  doing  nothing,  which  may  consist 
in  stitching  so  hard  that  you  would  swear 
she  was  an  over-worked  seamstress  at  it 
for  her  life,  or  you  will  find  her  on  a  table 
with  nails  in  her  mouth,  and  anon  she 
has  to  be  chased  from  the  garret  (she  has 
suddenly  decided  to  change  her  curtains), 
or  she  is  under  the  bed  searching  for 
91 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

band-boxes  and  asking  sternly  where  we 
have  put  that  bonnet.  On  the  whole  she 
is  behaving  in  a  most  exemplary  way 
to-day  (not  once  have  we  caught  her 
trying  to  go  out  into  the  washing-house), 
and  we  compliment  her  at  dinner  time, 
partly  because  she  deserves  it,  and  partly 
to  make  her  think  herself  so  good  that 
she  will  eat  something,  just  to  maintain 
her  new  character.  I  question  whether  one 
hour  of  all  her  life  was  given  to  thoughts 
of  food ;  in  her  great  days  to  eat  seemed 
to  her  to  be  waste  of  time,  and  after- 
wards she  only  ate  to  boast  of  it,  as 
something  she  had  done  to  please  us. 
She  seldom  remembered  whether  she  had 
dined,  but  always  presumed  she  had,  and 
while  she  was  telling  me  in  all  good  faith 
what  the  meal  consisted  of,  it  might  be 
brought  in.     When  in  London   I  had  to 

hear    daily   what    she    was    eating,     and 
92 


A    DAY    OF    HER   LIFE 

perhaps  she  had  refused  all  dishes  until 
they  produced  the  pen  and  ink.  These 
were  flourished  before  her,  and  then  she 
would  say  with  a  sigh,  ^  Tell  him  I  am  to 
eat  an  egg/  But  they  were  not  so  easily 
deceived  ;  they  waited,  pen  in  hand,  until 
the  egg  was  eaten. 
vi  She  never  ^  went  for  a  walk '  in  her  life. 
Many  long  trudges  she  had  as  a  girl  when 
she  carried  her  father's  dinner  in  a  flaggon 
to  the  country  place  where  he  was  at 
work,  but  to  walk  with  no  end  save  the 
good  of  your  health  seemed  a  very  droll 
proceeding  to  her.  In  her  young  days, 
she  was  positive,  no  one  had  ever  gone  for 
a  walk,  and  she  never  lost  the  belief  that 
it  was  an  absurdity  introduced  by  a  new 
generation  with  too  much  time  on  their 
hands.  That  they  enjoyed  it  she  could 
not  believe ;  it  was  merely  a  form  of  show- 
ing off,  and  as  they  passed  her  window  she 
93 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

would  remark  to  herself  with  blasting 
satire,  ^  Ay,  Jeames,  are  you  off  for  your 
walk  ? '  and  add  fervently,  ^  Rather  you 
than  me  ! '  I  was  one  of  those  who  walked, 
and  though  she  smiled,  and  might  drop  a 
sarcastic  word  when  she  saw  me  putting 
on  my  boots,  it  was  she  who  had  heated 
them  in  preparation  for  my  going.  The 
arrangement  between  us  was  that  she 
should  lie  down  until  my  return,  and  to 
ensure  its  being  carried  out  I  saw  her 
in  bed  before  I  started,  but  with  the 
bang  of  the  door  she  would  be  at  the 
window  to  watch  me  go :  there  is  one 
spot  on  the  road  where  a  thousand  times 
I  have  turned  to  wave  my  stick  to  her, 
while  she  nodded  and  smiled  and  kissed 
her  hand  to  me.  That  kissing  of  the 
hand  was  the  one  English  custom  she  had 
learned. 

In  an  hour  or  so  I  return,  and  perhaps 
94 


A   DAY   OF    HER   LIFE 

find  her  in  bed,  according  to  promise,  but 
still  I  am  suspicious.  The  way  to  her 
detection  is  circuitous. 

^  I  '11  need  to  be  rising  now,'  she  says, 
with  a  yawn  that  may  be  genuine. 

*  How  long  have  you  been  in  bed  ? ' 

^  You  saw  me  go.' 

^  And  then  I  saw  you  at  the  window. 
Did  you  go  straight  back  to  bed  ? ' 

^  Surely  I  had  that  much  sense.' 

'  The  truth  ! ' 

^  I  might  have  taken  a  look  at  the  clock 
first.' 

^  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  have  a  mother 
who  prevaricates.  Have  you  been  lying 
down  ever  since  I  left  ? ' 

'  Thereabout.' 

^  What  does  that  mean  exactly  ? ' 

^OfFandon.' 

^  Have  you  been  to  the  garret  ? ' 

/  What  should  I  do  in  the  garret  ? ' 
95 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

^  But  have  you  ?  * 

^  I  might  just  have  looked  up  the  garret 
stair/ 

^You  have  been  redding  up  the  garret 
again ! ' 

^  Not  what  you  could  call  a  redd  up/ 

^  O,  woman,  woman,  I  believe  you  have 
not  been  in  bed  at  all ! ' 

^  You  see  me  in  it/ 

*  My  opinion  is  that  you  jumped  into  bed 
when  you  heard  me  open  the  door/ 

^  Havers/ 

'  Did  you  ? ' 

^No/ 

^  Well,  then,  when  you  heard  me  at  the 
gate  ? ' 

^  It  might  have  been  when  I  heard  you 
at  the  gate/ 

As  daylight  goes  she  follows  it  with  her 

sewing   to  the  window,  and  gets  another 

needleful  out  of  it,  as  one  may  run  after  a 
96 


A   DAY   OF    HER   LIFE 

departed  visitor  for  a  last  word,  but  now 
the  gas  is  lit,  and  no  longer  is  it  shameful 
to  sit  down  to  literature.  If  the  book  be 
a  story  by  George  Eliot  or  Mrs.  Oliphant, 
her  favourite  (and  mine)  among  women 
novelists,  or  if  it  be  a  Carlyle,  and  we 
move  softly,  she  will  read,  entranced,  for 
hours.  Her  delight  in  Carlyle  was  so 
well  known  that  various  good  people 
would  send  her  books  that  contained  a 
page  about  him ;  she  could  place  her 
finger  on  any  passage  wanted  in  the 
biography  as  promptly  as  though  she 
were  looking  for  some  article  in  her  own 
drawer,  and  given  a  date  she  was  often 
able  to  tell  you  what  they  were  doing  in 
Cheyne  Row  that  day.  Carlyle,  she  de- 
cided, was  not  so  much  an  ill  man  to 
live  with  as  one  who  needed  a  deal  of 
managing,    but    when     I    asked    if   she 

thought   she   could    have     managed   hina 
7  97 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

she  only  replied  with  a  modest  smile  that 
meant  ^  Oh,  no ! '  but  had  the  face  of 
^  Sal,  I  would  have  liked  to  try.' 

One  lady  lent  her  some  scores  of 
Carlyle  letters  that  have  never  been  pub- 
lished, and  crabbed  was  the  writing,  but 
though  my  mother  liked  to  have  our 
letters  read  aloud  to  her,  she  read  every 
one  of  these  herself,  and  would  quote 
from  them  in  her  talk.  Side  by  side 
with  the  Carlyle  letters,  which  show  him 
in  his  most  gracious  light,  were  many 
from  his  wife  to  a  friend,  and  in  one  of 
these  a  romantic  adventure  is  described  — 
I  quote  from  memory,  and  it  is  a  poor 
memory  compared  to  my  mother's,  which 
registered  everything  by  a  method  of 
her  own :  ^  What  might  be  the  age  of 
Bell  Tibbits?  Well,  she  was  born  the 
week   I   bought  the  boiler,  so  she  '11    be 

one-and-fifty   (no   less ! )    come     Martin- 
98 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

mas/  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  got  into  the 
train  at  a  London  station  and  was  feel- 
ing very  lonely,  for  the  journey  to 
Scotland  lay  before  her  and  no  one  had 
come  to  see  her  off.  Then,  just  as  the 
train  was  starting,  a  man  jumped  into  the 
carriage,  to  her  regret  until  she  saw  his 
face,  when,  behold,  they  were  old  friends, 
and  the  last  time  they  met  (I  forget  how 
many  years  before)  he  had  asked  her  to 
be  his  wife.  He  was  very  nice,  and  if 
I  remember  aright,  saw  her  to  her  jour- 
ney's end,  though  he  had  intended  to 
alight  at  some  half-way  place.  I  call  this 
an  adventure,  and  I  am  sure  it  seemed  to 
my  mother  to  be  the  most  touching  and 
memorable  adventure  that  can  come  into  a 
woman's  life.  ^  You  see  he  hadna  forgot,' 
she  would  say  proudly,  as  if  this  was  a 
compUment   in   which  all    her   sex  could 

share,  and  on  her  old  tender  face  shone 
99 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

some  of  the  elation  with  which  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle  wrote  that  letter. 

But  there  were  times,  she  held,  when 
Carlyle  must  have  made  his  wife  a  glorious 
woman.     ^  As  when  ? '  I  might  inquire. 

^  When  she  keeked  in  at  his  study  door 
and  said  to  herself,  "  The  whole  world  is 
ringing  with  his  fame,  and  he  is  my 
man  ! " ' 

^  And  then,'  I  might  point  out,  ^  he 
would  roar  to  her  to  shut  the  door.' 

^  Pooh,'  said  my  mother,  ^  a  man's  roar 
IS  neither  here  nor  there.'  But  her  ver- 
dict as  a  whole  was,  ^  I  would  rather  have 
been  his  mother  than  his  wife.' 

So  we  have  got  her  into  her  chair  with 
the  Carlyles,  and  all  is  well.  Further- 
more, ^  to  mak  siccar,'  my  father  has 
taken  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace 
and  is  deep  in  the  latest  five  columns  of 
Gladstone,  who  is  his  Carlyle.     He  is  to 


100 


f 


A   DAY   OF    HER   LIFE 

see  that  she  does  not  slip  away  fired  by 
a  conviction,  which  suddenly  over-rides 
her  pages,  that  the  kitchen  is  going  to  rack 
and  ruin  for  want  of  her,  and  she  is  to 
recall  him  to  himself  should  he  put  his 
foot  in  the  fire  and  keep  it  there,  forget- 
ful of  all  save  his  hero's  eloquence.  (We 
were  a  family  who  needed  a  deal  of 
watching.)  She  is  not  interested  in  what 
Mr.  Gladstone  has  to  say ;  indeed  she 
could  never  be  brought  to  look  upon 
politics  as  of  serious  concern  for  grown 
folk  (a  class  in  which  she  scarcely  included 
man),  and  she  gratefully  gave  up  reading 
*  leaders '  the  day  I  ceased  to  write  them. 
But  like  want  of  reasonableness,  a  love 
for  having  the  last  word,  want  of  humour 
and  the  like,  politics  were  in  her  opinion 
a  mannish  attribute  to  be  tolerated,  and 
Gladstone  was  the  name  of  the  something 
which    makes    all    our    sex    such    queer 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

characters.  She  had  a  profound  faith  In 
him  as  an  aid  to  conversation,  and  if  there 
were  silent  men  in  the  company  would 
give  him  to  them  to  talk  about,  precisely 
as  she  divided  a  cake  among  children. 
And  then,  with  a  motherly  smile,  she 
would  leave  them  to  gorge  on  him. 
But  in  the  idolising  of  Gladstone  she  re- 
cognised, nevertheless,  a  certain  inevita- 
bility, and  would  no  more  have  tried  to 
contend  with  it  than  to  sweep  a  shadow 
off  the  floor.  Gladstone  was,  and  there 
was  an  end  of  it  in  her  practical  philo- 
sophy. Nor  did  she  accept  him  coldly ; 
like  a  true  woman  she  sympathised  with 
those  who  suffered  severely,  and  they 
knew  it  and  took  counsel  of  her  in  the 
hour  of  need.  I  remember  one  ardent 
Gladstonian  who,  as  a  general  election 
drew  near,  was  in  sore  straits  indeed,  for 
he  disbelieved  in  Home    Rule,  and   yet 


A   DAY   OF    HER   LIFE 

how  could  he  vote  against  ^  Gladstone's 
man '  ?  His  distress  was  so  real  that  it 
gave  him  a  hang-dog  appearance.  He 
put  his  case  gloomily  before  her,  and 
until  the  day  of  the  election  she  riddled 
him  with  sarcasm ;  I  think  he  only  went 
to  her  because  he  found  a  mournful  en- 
joyment in  seeing  a  false  Gladstonian 
tortured. 

It  was  all  such  plain-sailing  for  him, 
she  pointed  out;  he  did  not  like  this 
Home  Rule,  and  therefore  he  must  vote 
against  it. 

She  put  it  pitiful  clear,  he  replied  with 
a  groan. 

But  she  was  like  another  woman  to  him 
when  he  appeared  before  her  on  his  way 
to  the  polling-booth. 

^  This  is  a  watery  Sabbath  to  you,  I  'm 

thinking,'    she   said    sympathetically,    but 

without  dropping  her  wires  —  for  Home 
103 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

Rule  or  no  Home  Rule  that  stocking- 
foot  must  be  turned  before  twelve  o'clock. 
A  watery  Sabbath  means  a  doleful  day, 
and  ^A  watery  Sabbath  it  is/  he  replied 
with  feehng.  A  silence  followed,  broken 
only  by  the  click  of  the  wires.  Now  and 
again  he  would  mutter,  ^  Ay,  well,  I  '11  be 
going  to  vote  —  little  did  I  think  the  day 
would  come,'  and  so  on,  but  if  he  rose  it 
was  only  to  sit  down  again,  and  at  last 
she  crossed  over  to  him  and  said  softly, 
(no  sarcasm  in  her  voice  now),  ^  Away 
with  you,  and  vote  for  Gladstone's  man  ! ' 
He  jumped  up  and  made  off  without  a 
word,  but  from  the  east  window  we 
watched  him  strutting  down  the  brae. 
I  laughed,  but  she  said  ^  I  'm  no  sure  that 
it's  a  laughing  matter,'  and  afterwards, 
^  I  would  have  liked  fine  to  be  that  Glad- 
stone's mother.' 

It  is   nine  o'clock  now,  a  quarter,  past 
104 


A   DAY   OF    HER   LIFE 

nine,  half-past  nine  —  all  the  same  moment 
to  me,  for  I  am  at  a  sentence  that  will 
not  write.  I  know,  though  I  can't  hear, 
what  my  sister  has  gone  upstairs  to  say- 
to  my  mother: 

^  I  was  in  at  him  at  nine,  and  he  said  "In 
five  minutes,"  so  I  put  the  steak  on  the 
brander,  but  I  Ve  been  in  thrice  since 
then,  and  every  time  he  says,  "In  five 
minutes,"  and  when  I  try  to  take  the  table 
cover  off,  he  presses  his  elbows  hard  on 
it,  and  growls.  His  supper  will  be  com- 
pletely spoilt.' 

^  Oh,  that  weary  writing ! ' 

'  I  can  do  no  more,  mother,  so  you  must 
come  down  and  stop  him.' 

*  I  have  no  power  over  him,'  my  mother 
says,  but  she  rises  smiling,  and  presently 
she  is  opening  my  door. 

*  In  five  minutes  ! '  I  cry,  but  when  I  see 
that  it  is  she  I  rise  and  put  my  arm  round 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

her.  ^  What  a  full  basket ! '  she  says, 
looking  at  the  waste-paper  basket  which 
contains  most  of  my  work  of  the  night, 
and  with  a  dear  gesture  she  lifts  up  a 
torn  page  and  kisses  it.  ^  Poor  thing/  she 
says  to  it,  ^  and  you  would  have  liked  so 
fine  to  be  printed ! '  and  she  puts  her  hand 
over  my  desk  to  prevent  my  writing,  more. 

^  In  the  last  five  minutes,'  I  begin,  ^  one 
can  often  do  more  than  in  the  first  hour.' 

*  Many  a  time  I  've  said  it  in  my  young 
days,'  she  says  slowly. 

^  And  proved  it,  too  ! '  cries  a  voice  from 
the  door,  the  voice  of  one  who  was  prouder 
of  her  even  than  I ;  it  is  true,  and  yet 
almost  unbelievable,  that  any  one  could 
have  been  prouder  of  her  than  I. 

^  But  those  days  are  gone,'  my  mother 

says    solemnly,  ^gone    to    come   back    no 

more.    You  '11  put  by  your  work  now,  man, 

and   have  your   supper,  and  then  you  '11 
io6 


A   DAY   OF    HER   LIFE 

come  up  and  sit  beside  your  mother  for  a 
whiley,  fpr  soon  you  '11  be  putting  her 
away  in  the  kirk-yard/ 

I  hear  such  a  Httle  cry  from  near  the 
doorr 

So  my  mother  and  I  go  up  the  stair 
together.  ^  We  have  changed  places/  she 
says ;  ^  tftat  was  just  how  I  used  to  help 
you  up,  but  I  'm  the  bairn  now/ 

She  brings  out  the  Testament  again ;  it 

was  always   lying  within  reach ;  it  is  the 

lock  of  hair  she  left  me  when  she  died. 

And  when  she  has  read  for  a  long  time 

she  Ogives   me  a  look/  as  w^  say  in  the 

north,   and  I  go  out,  to  leave  her  alone 

with  God.     She  had  been  but  a  child  when 

her  mother  died,  and  so  she  fell  early  into 

the  way   of  saying    her  prayers   with  no 

earthly  listener.     Often  and  often  I  have 

found  her  on  her  knees,  but  I  always  went 

softly   away,  closing   the    door.     I    never 
107 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

heard  her  pray,  but  I  know  very  well  how 
she  prayed,  and  that,  when  that  door  was 
shut,  there  was  not  a  day  in  God's  sight 
between  the  worn  woman  and  the  little 
child. 


1 08 


CHAPTER  VI 

HER    MAID    OF    ALL    WORK 

And  sometimes  I  was  her  maid  of  all 
work. 

It  is  early  morn,  and  my  mother  has 
come  noiselessly  into  my  room.  I  know 
it  is  she,  though  my  eyes  are  shut,  and  I 
am  only  half  awake.  Perhaps  I  was  dream- 
ing of  her,  for  I  accept  her  presence  with- 
out surprise,  as  if  in  the  awakening  I  had 
but  seen  her  go  out  at  one  door  to  come 
in  at  another.  But  she  is  speaking  to 
herself. 

'  I  'm  sweer  to  waken  him  —  I  doubt  he 

was  working  late  —  oh,  that  weary  writing 

—  no,  Tmaunna  waken  him.' 
109 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

I  start  up.  She  Is  wringing  her  hands. 
^  What  is  wrong  ? '  I  cry,  but  I  know  before 
she  answers.  My  sister  is  down  with  one 
of  the  headaches  against  which  even  she 
cannot  fight,  and  my  mother,  who  bears 
physical  pain  as  if  it  were  a  comrade,  is 
most  woe-begone  when  her  daughter  is 
the  sufferer.  ^  And  she  winna  let  me  go 
down  the  stair  to  make  a  cup  of  tea  for 
her,*  she  groans. 

^  I  will  soon  make  the  tea,  mother.' 

^  Will  you  ? '  she  says  eagerly.  It  is 
what  she  has  come  to  me  for,  but  *  It  is 
a  pity  to  rouse  you,'  she  says. 

^  And  I  will  take  charge  of  the  house 
to-day,  and  light  the  fires  and  wash  the 
dishes ' 

^  Na,  oh  no ;  no,  I  couldna  ask  that  of 
you,  and  you  an  author.' 

^  It   won't   be    the    first   time,  mother, 

since  I  was  an  author.' 
no 


HER   MAID    OF   ALL   WORK 

^  More  like  the  fiftieth  ! '  she  says  al- 
most gleefully,  so  I  have  begun  well,  for 
to  keep  up  her  spirits  is  the  great  thing 
to-day. 

Knock  at  the  door.  It  is  the  baker. 
I  take  in  the  bread,  looking  so  sternly  at 
him  that  he  dare  not  smile. 

Knock  at  the  door.  It  is  the  postman. 
(I  hope  he  did  not  see  that  I  had  the  lid 
of  the  kettle  in  my  other  hand.) 

Furious  knocking  in  a  remote  part. 
This  means  that  the  author  is  in  the  coal 
cellar. 

Anon  I  carry  two  breakfasts  upstairs  in 

triumph.     I   enter  the   bedroom   like   no 

mere  humdrum  son,  but  after  the  manner 

of  the  Glasgow  waiter.     I  must  say  more 

about   him.     He  had  been   my  mother's 

one  waiter,  the  only  man-servant  she  ever 

came  in  contact  with,  and  they  had  met 

in  a  Glasgow  hotel  which  she  was  eager  to 
III 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

see,  having  heard  of  the  monstrous  things, 
and  conceived  them  to  resemble  country- 
inns  with  another  twelve  bedrooms.  I 
remember  how  she  beamed  —  yet  tried  to 
look  as  if  it  was  quite  an  ordinary  experi- 
ence —  when  we  alighted  at  the  hotel  door, 
but  though  she  said  nothing  I  soon  read 
disappointment  in  her  face.  She  knew 
how  I  was  exulting  in  having  her  there, 
so  would  not  say  a  word  to  damp  me,  but 
I  craftily  drew  it  out  of  her.  No,  she  was 
very  comfortable,  and  the  house  was  grand 
beyond  speech,  but  —  but  —  where  was 
he  ?  he  had  not  been  very  hearty.  ^  He ' 
was  the  landlord  ;  she  had  expected  him 
to  receive  us  at  the  door  and  ask  if  we 
were  in  good  health  and  how  we  had  left 
the  others,  and  then  she  would  have  asked 
him  if  his  wife  was  well  and  how  many 
children  they  had,  after  which  we  should 
all   have   sat   down    together    to    dinner. 


HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

Two  chambermaids  came  into  her  room 
and  prepared  it  without  a  single  word  to 
her  about  her  journey  or  on  any  other 
subject,  and  when  they  had  gone,  ^  They 
are  two  haughty  misses,'  said  my  mother 
with  spirit.  But  what  she  most  resented 
was  the  waiter  with  his  swagger  black 
suit  and  short  quick  steps  and  the 
^  towel '  over  his  arm.  Without  so  much 
as  a  ^  Welcome  to  Glasgow  ! '  he  showed 
us  to  our  seats,  not  the  smallest  ac- 
knowledgment of  our  kindness  in  giving 
such  munificent  orders  did  we  draw 
from  him,  he  hovered  around  the  table 
as  if  it  would  be  unsafe  to  leave  us 
with  his  knives  and  forks  (he  should 
have  seen  her  knives  and  forks),  when 
we  spoke  to  each  other  he  affected  not 
to  hear,  we  might  laugh  but  this  uppish 
fellow  would  not  join  in,  we  retired, 
crushed,  and  he  had  the  final  impudence 
8  113 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

to  open  the  door  for  us.     But  though  this 

hurt  my  mother  at  the  time,  the  humour 

of  our  experiences  filled  her  on  reflection, 

and  in  her  own  house  she  would  describe 

them  with   unction,    sometimes    to    those 

who    had   been  in  many  hotels,  often    to 

others    who     had     been    in     none,    and 

whoever    were    her    listeners    she    made 

them    laugh,    though    not    always    at   the 

same  thing. 

So  now  when  I  enter  the  bedroom  with 

the  tray,  on  my  arm  is  that  badge  of  pride, 

the  towel ;  and  I  approach  with  prim  steps 

to  inform  Madam  that  breakfast  is  ready, 

and  she  puts  on  the  society  manner  and 

addresses    me    as    '  Sir,'    and    asks    with 

cruel    sarcasm    for  what   purpose    (except 

to  boast)  I  carry  the  towel,  and  I  say  ^  Is 

there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  Madam  ? ' 

and  Madam  replies  that  there  is  one  more 

thing  I  can  do,  and  that  is,  eat  her  break- 
114 


HER   MAID    OF   ALL   WORK 

fast  for  her.  But  of  this  I  take  no  notice, 
for  my  object  is  to  fire  her  with  the  spirit 
of  the  game,  so  that  she  eats  unwittingly. 

Now  that  I  have  washed  up  the  break- 
fast things  I  should  be  at  my  writing,  and 
I  am  anxious  to  be  at  it,  as  I  have  an  idea 
in  my  head,  which,  if  it  is  of  any  value,  has 
almost  certainly  been  put  there  by  her. 
But  dare  I  venture?  I  know  that  the 
house  has  not  been  properly  set  going 
yet,  there  are  beds  to  make,  the  exterior 
of  the  teapot  is  fair,  but  suppose  some  one 
were  to  look  inside  ?  What  a  pity  I 
knocked  over  the  flour-barrel !  Can  I 
hope  that  for  once  my  mother  will  forget 
to  inquire  into  these  matters?  Is  my 
sister  willing  to  let  disorder  reign  until 
to-morrow  ?  I  determine  to  risk  it.  Per- 
haps I  have  been  at  work  for  half-an- 
hour   when  I  hear  movements  overhead. 

One  or  other  of  them  is  wondering  why 
"5 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

the  house  is  so  quiet.     I  rattle  the  tongs, 

but  even  this    does  not    satisfy  them,  so 

back   into    the    desk    go  my  papers,  and 

now  what  you  hear  is  not  the  scrape  of  a 

pen    but    the    rinsing    of  pots   and  pans, 

or  I  am  making  beds,  and  making  them 

thoroughly,  because  after  I  am  gone  my 

mother  will  come   (I  know  her)  and  look 

suspiciously  beneath  the  coverlet. 

The  kitchen    is  now  speckless,  not  an 

unwashed    platter    in    sight,    unless    you 

look  beneath  the  table.    I  feel  that  I  have 

earned  time  for  an  hour's  writing  at  last, 

and   at  it  I  go  with  vigour.     One    page, 

two  pages,  really  I  am  making  progress, 

when  —  was  that  a  door  opening?     But  I 

have  my  mother's  light  step  on  the  brain, 

so  I  ^  yoke '  again,  and  next  moment  she 

is  beside  me.      She   has   not  exactly  left 

her  room,   she  gives   me   to   understand; 

but   suddenly  a  conviction    had  come  to 
ii6 


HER   MAID    OF   ALL   WORK 

her  that  I  was  writing  without  a  warm 
mat  at  my  feet.  She  carries  one  in  her 
hands.  Now  that  she  is  here  she  remains 
for  a  time,  and  though  she  is  in  the  arm- 
chair by  the  fire,  where  she  sits  bolt  upright 
(she  loved  to  have  cushions  on  the  unused 
chairs,  but  detested  putting  her  back 
against  them),  and  I  am  bent  low  over 
my  desk,  I  know  that  contentment  and 
pity  are  struggling  for  possession  of  her 
face :  contentment  wins  when  she  surveys 
her  room,  pity  when  she  looks  at  me. 
Every  article  of  furniture,  from  the  chairs 
that  came  into  the  world  with  me  and  have 
worn  so  much  better,  though  I  was  new 
and  they  were  second-hand,  to  the  mantle- 
border  of  fashionable  design  which  she 
sewed  in  her  seventieth  year,  having 
picked  up  the  stitch  in  half  a  lesson,  has 
its   story  of  fight  and  attainment  for  her, 

hence  her  satisfaction  ;    but  she    sighs  at 
117 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

sight  of  her  son,  dipping  and  tearing,  and 
chewing  the  loathly  pen. 

^  Oh,  that  weary  writing  ! ' 

In  vain  do  I  tell  her  that  writing  is  as 
pleasant  to  me  as  ever  was  the  prospect 
of  a  tremendous  day's  ironing  to  her ; 
that  (to  some,  though  not  to  me)  new 
chapters  are  as  easy  to  turn  out  as  new 
bannocks.  No,  she  maintains,  for  one 
bannock  is  the  marrows  of  another,  while 
chapters  —  and  then,  perhaps,  her  eyes 
twinkle,  and  says  she  saucily,  ^  But,  sal, 
you  may  be  right,  for  sometimes  your 
bannocks  are  as  alike  as  mine  ! ' 

Or  I  may  be  roused  from  my  writing 

by  her  cry  that  I  am  making  strange  faces 

again.     It  is  my    contemptible   weakness 

that  if  I  say  a  character  smiled  vacuously, 

I  must  smile  vacuously;  if  he  frowns  or 

leers,  I  frown  or  leer ;  if  he  is  a  coward  or 

given  to  contortions,  I  cringe,  or  twist  my 
ii8 


HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

legs  until  I  have  to  stop  writing  to  undo 
the  knot.  I  bow  with  him,  eat  with  him^ 
and  gnaw  my  moustache  with  him.  If 
the  character  be  a  lady  with  an  exquisite 
laugh,  I  suddenly  terrify  you  by  laughing 
exquisitely.  One  reads  of  the  astounding 
versatility  of  an  actor  who  is  stout  and 
lean  on  the  same  evening,  but  what  is  he 
to  the  noveUst  who  is  a  dozen  persons 
within  the  hour  ?  Morally,  I  fear,  we 
must  deteriorate  —  but  this  is  a  subject  I 
may  wisely  edge  away  from* 

We  always  spoke  to  each  other  in  broad 
Scotch  (I  think  in  it  still),  but  now  and 
again  she  would  use  a  word  that  was  new 
to  me,  or  I  might  hear  one  of  her  contem- 
poraries use  it.  Now  is  my  opportunity 
to  angle  for  its  meaning.  If  I  ask,  boldly, 
what  was  that  word  she  used  just  now, 
something  Hke  ^  bilbie '  or  ^  silvendy  '  ?  she 

blushes^  and  says  she  never  said  anything 
119 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

so  common,  or  hoots,  it  is  some  auld- 
farrant  word  about  which  she  can  tell 
me  nothing.  But  if  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation I  remark  casually,  ^  Did  he  find 
bilbie  ? '  or  ^  Was  that  quite  silvendy  ? ' 
(though  the  sense  of  the  question  is  vague 
to  me)  she  falls  into  the  trap,  and  the 
words  explain  themselves  in  her  replies. 
Or  maybe  to-day  she  sees  whither  I  am 
leading  her,  and  such  is  her  sensitiveness 
that  she  is  quite  hurt.  The  humour  goes 
out  of  her  face  (to  find  bilbie  in  some 
more  silvendy  spot),  and  her  reproachful 
eyes  —  but  now  I  am  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair,  and  we  have  made  it  up.  Never- 
theless, I  shall  get  no  more  old-world 
Scotch  out  of  her  this  forenoon,  she  weeds 
her  talk  determinedly,  and  it  is  as  great  a 
falling  away  as  when  the  mutch  gives  place 
to  the  cap. 

I  am  off  for  my  afternoon  walk,  and  she 

120 


HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

has  promised  to  bar  the  door  behind  me 
and  open  it  to  none.  When  I  return,  — 
well,  the  door  is  still  barred,  but  she  is 
looking  both  furtive  and  elated.  I  should 
say  that  she  is  burning  to  tell  me  some- 
thing, but  cannot  tell  it  without  exposing 
herself.  Has  she  opened  the  door,  and  if 
so,  why  ?  I  don't  ask,  but  I  watch.  It 
is  she  who  is  sly  now : 

^  Have  you  been  in  the  east  room  since 
you  came  in  ? '  she  asks  with  apparent 
indifference. 

^  No  ;  why  do  you  ask  ? ' 

^  Oh,  I  just  thought  you  might  have 
looked  im' 

*  Is  there  anything  new  there  ? ' 

^  I  dinna  say  there  is,  but  —  but  just  go 
and  see.' 

^  There  can't  be  anything  new  if  you 
kept  the  door  barred,'  I  say  cleverly. 

This  crushes  her  for  a  moment ;  but  her 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

eagerness  that  I  should  see  is  greater 
than  her  fear.  I  set  off  for  the  east  room, 
and  she  follows,  affecting  humility,  but 
with  triumph  in  her  eye.  How  often  those 
little  scenes  took  place  !  I  was  never  told 
of  the  new  purchase,  I  was  lured  into  its 
presence,  and  then  she  waited  timidly  for 
my  start  of  surprise. 

^  Do  you  see  it  ? '  she  says  anxiously, 
and  I  see  it,  and  hear  it,  for  this  time  it  is 
a  bran-new  wicker  chair,  of  the  kind  that 
whisper  to  themselves  for  the  first  six 
months. 

^  A  going-about  body  was  selling  them 
in  a  cart,'  my  mother  begins,  and  what  fol- 
lowed presents  itself  to  my  eyes  before  she 
can  utter  another  word.  Ten  minutes  at 
the  least  did  she  stand  at  the  door  argy- 
bargying  with  that  man.  But  it  would  be 
cruelty  to  scold  a  woman  so  uplifted. 

^  Fifteen  shillings  he  wanted,'  she  cries, 

122 


HER    MAID    OF   ALL   WORK 

^  but  what  do  you  think  I  beat  him  down 
to?' 

^  Seven  and  sixpence  ? ' 

She  claps  her  hands  with  delight. 
'  Four  shillings,  as  I  'm  a  living  woman  ! ' 
she  crows :  never  was  a  woman  fonder  of  a 
bargain. 

I  gaze  at  the  purchase  with  the  amaze- 
ment expected  of  me,  and  the  chair  itself 
crinkles  and  shudders  to  hear  what  it  went 
for  (or  is  it  merely  chuckling  at  her  ?). 
^  And  the  man  said  it  cost  himself  five  shil- 
lings/ my  mother  continues  exultantly. 
You  would  have  thought  her  the  hardest 
person  had  not  a  knock  on  the  wall  sum- 
moned us  about  this  time  to  my  sister's 
side.  Though  in  bed  she  has  been  listen- 
ing, and  this  is  what  she  has  to  say,  in  a 
voice  that  makes  my  mother  very  indig- 
nant, ^  You  drive  a  bargain  !  I  'm  think- 
ing ten  shillings  was  nearer  what  you  paid.' 
123 


MARGARET^  OGILVY 

^  Four  shillings  to  a  penny  ! '  says  my 
mother. 

^  I  daresay/  says  my  sister ;  ^  but  after 
you  paid  him  the  money  I  heard  you  in 
the  httle  bedroom  press.  What  were  you 
doing  there  ? ' 

My  mother  winces.  ^  I  may  have  given 
him  a  present  of  an  old  top-coat/  she 
falters.  ^  He  looked  ill-happit.  But  that 
was  after  I  made  the  bargain.' 

^  Were  there  bairns  in  the  cart  ? ' 

^  There  might  have  been  a  bit  lassie  in 
the  cart.' 

*  I  thought  as  much.  What  did  you  give 
her  ?     I  heard  you  in  the  pantry.' 

^  Four  shillings  was  what  I  got  that 
chair  for/  replies  my  mother  firmly.  If  I 
don't  interfere  there  will  be  a  coldness  be- 
tween them  for  at  least  a  minute.  ^  There 
is  blood  on  your   finger/    I    say   to    my 

mother. 

124 


HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

*  So  there  is/  she  says,  concealing  her 
hand. 

'  Blood  ! '  exclaims  my  sister  anxiously, 
and  then  with  a  cry  of  triumph,  ^  I  warrant 
it 's  jelly.  You  gave  that  lassie  one  of  the 
jelly  cans  ! ' 

The  Glasgow  waiter  brings  up  tea,  and 
presently  my  sister  is  able  to  rise,  and 
after  a  sharp  fight  I  am  expelled  from  the 
kitchen.  The  last  thing  I  do  as  maid  of  all 
work  is  to  lug  upstairs  the  clothes-basket 
which  has  just  arrived  with  the  mangling. 
Now  there  is  delicious  linen  for  my  mother 
to  finger ;  there  was  always  rapture  on  her 
face  when  the  clothes-basket  came  in ;  it 
never  failed  to  make  her  once  more  the 
active  genius  of  the  house.  I  may  leave  her 
now  with  her  sheets  and  collars  and  napkins 
and  fronts.  Indeed,  she  probably  orders 
me  to  go.  A  son  is  all  very  well,  but  sup- 
pose he  were  to  tread  on  that  counterpane  ! 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

My  sister  Is  but  and  I  am  ben — I  mean 

she  is  in  the  east  end  and  I  am  in  the  west 

—  tuts,  tuts,  let  us  get  at  the  English  of 

this  by  striving  :  she  is  in  the  kitchen  and 

I  am  at  my  desk  in  the  parlour.     I  hope  I 

may  not  be  disturbed,  for  to-night  I  must 

make  my  hero  say  *  Darling,'  and  it  needs 

both   privacy    and    concentration.       In    a 

word,  let  me  admit  (though  I  should  like  to 

beat  about  the  bush)  that  I  have  sat  down 

to  a  love-chapter.     Too  long  has  it  been 

avoided,  Albert  has  called  Marion  ^  dear ' 

only    as  yet  (between  you  and  me  these 

are  not  their  real  names),  but  though  the 

public  will  probably  read  the  word  without 

blinking,  it  went  off  in  my  hands  with  a 

bang.     They  tell  me  —  the  Sassenach  tell 

me  —  that  in  time  I  shall  be  able  without 

a  blush  to  make  Albert  say  ^  darling,'  and 

even    gather    her   up  in   his  arms,  but  I 

begin  to  doubt  it ;  the  moment  sees  me  as 
126 


HER   MAID    OF   ALL   WORK 

shy  as  ever  ;  I  still  find  it  advisable  to  lock 
the  door,  and  then  —  no  witness  save  the 
dog  —  I  ^  do '  it  dourly  with  my  teeth 
clenched,  while  the  dog  retreats  into  the 
far  corner  and  moans.  The  bolder  English- 
man (I  am  told)  will  write  a  love-chapter 
and  then  go  out,  quite  coolly,  to  dinner,  but 
such  goings  on  are  contrary  to  the  Scotch 
nature ;  even  the  great  novelists  dared  not. 
Conceive  Mr.  Stevenson  left  alone  with  a 
hero,  a  heroine,  and  a  proposal  impending 
(he  does  not  know  where  to  look).  Sir 
Walter  in  the  same  circumstances  gets 
out  of  the  room  by  making  his  love- 
scenes  take  place  between  the  end  of  one 
chapter  and  the  beginning  of  the  next, 
but  he  could  afford  to  do  anything,  and 
the  small  fry  must  e'en  to  their  task, 
moan  the  dog  as  he  may.  So  I  have 
yoked  to  mine  when,  enter  my  mother, 

looking  wistful. 

127 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

^  I  suppose  you  are  terrible  thrang/  she 
says. 

^  Well,  I  am  rather  busy,  but  —  what  is 
it  you  want  me  to  do  ? ' 

*  It  would  be  a  shame  to  ask  you/ 

'Still,  ask  me.' 

'  I  am  so  terrified  they  may  be  filed. ' 

'  You  want  me  to ? ' 

'  If  you  would  just  come  up,  and  help 
me  to  fold  the  sheets  ! ' 

The  sheets  are  folded  and  I  return  to 
Albert.  I  lock  the  door  and  at  last  I  am 
bringing  my  hero  forward  nicely  (my  knee 
in  the  small  of  his  back),  when  this  start- 
ling question  is  shot  by  my  sister  through 
the  keyhole : 

'  Where  did  you  put  the  carrot-grater  ?  * 

It  will  all  have  to  be  done  over  again  if 

I  let  Albert  go  for  a  moment,  so,  gripping 

him  hard,  I  shout  indignantly  that  I  have 

not  seen  the  carrot-grater. 
128 


HER   MAID    OF   ALL   WORK 

^Then  what  did  you  grate  the  carrots 
on  ? '  asks  the  voice,  and  the  door-handle 
is  shaken  just  as  I  shake  Albert.       '^ 

^  On  a  broken  cup/  I  reply  with  sur- 
prising readiness,  and  I  get  to  work  again 
but  am  less  engrossed,  for  a  conviction 
grows  on  me  that  I  put  the  carrot-grater  in 
the  drawer  of  the  sewing-machine. 

I  am  wondering  whether  I  should  con- 
fess or  brazen  it  out,  when  I  hear  my 
sister  going  hurriedly  upstairs.  I  have  a 
presentiment  that  she  has  gone  to  talk 
about  me,  and  I  basely  open  my  door  and 
listen. 

^  Just  look  at  that,  mother  ! ' 

'  Is  it  a  dish-cloth  ? ' 

^  That 's  what  it  is  now.' 

^  Losh  behears !  it 's  one  of  the  new 
table-napkins.' 

*  That 's  what  it  was.     He  has  been  pol- 
ishing the  kitchen  grate  with  it ! ' 
9  129 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

(I  remember  !) 

^  Woe 's  me  !  That  is  what  comes  of  his 
not  letting  me  budge  from  this  room.  O, 
it  is  a  watery  Sabbath  when  men  take  to 
doing  women's  work  ! ' 

^  It  defies  the  face  of  clay,  mother,  to 
fathom  what  makes  him  so  senseless/ 

^  Oh,  it 's  that  weary  writing.' 

^  And  the  worst  of  it  is  he  will  talk  to- 
morrow as  if  he  had  done  wonders.' 

'  That 's  the  way  with  the  whole  clan- 
jamfray  of  them.' 

^Yes,  but  as  usual  you  will  humour 
him,  mother.' 

*  Oh,  well,  it  pleases  him,  you  see,'  says 
my  mother,  ^  and  we  can  have  our  laugh 
when  his  door 's  shut.' 

^  He  is  most  terribly  handless.' 

^  He  is  all  that,  but,  poor  soul,  he  does 
his  best/ 


130 


CHAPTER  VII 

R.   L.   S. 

These  familiar  initials  are,  I  suppose, 
the  best  beloved  in  recent  literature,  cer- 
tainly they  are  the  sweetest  to  me,  but 
there  was  a  time  when  my  mother  could 
not  abide  them.  She  said  ^  That  Steven- 
son man '  with  a  sneer,  and  it  was  never 
easy  to  her  to  sneer.  At  thought  of  him 
her  face  would  become  almost  hard,  which 
seems  incredible,  and  she  would  knit  her 
lips  and  fold  her  arms,  and  reply  with  a 
stiff  ^  oh '  if  you  mentioned  his  aggravating 
name.  In  the  novels  we  have  a  way  of 
writing  of  our  heroine,  ^  she  drew  herself 
up  haughtily,'  and  when  mine  draw  them- 
selves up  haughtily  I  see  my  mother  think- 
131 


^* 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

ing  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  He  knew 
her  opinion  of  him,  and  would  write,  ^  My 
ears  tingled  yesterday ;  I  sair  doubt  she 
has  been  miscalling  me  again/  But  the 
more  she  miscalled  him  the  more  he  de- 
lighted in  her,  and  she  was  informed  of 
this,  and  at  once  said  ^  The  scoundrel ! ' 
If  you  would  know  what  was  his  unpar- 
donable crime,  it  was  this,  he  wrote  better 
books  than  mine. 

I  remember  the  day  she  found  it  out, 
which  was  not,  however,  the  day  she 
admitted  it.  That  day,  when  I  should 
have  been  at  my  work,  she  came  upon 
me  in  the  kitchen,  ^  The  Master  of  Bal- 
lantrae '  beside  me,  but  I  was  not  reading : 
my  head  lay  heavy  on  the  table  and  to 
her  anxious  eyes,  I  doubt  not,  I  was  the 
picture  of  woe.  ^  Not  writing  ! '  I  echoed, 
no,   I   was  not  writing,  I   saw  no  use  in 

ever  trying  to  write  again.     And  down,  I 
132 


R.   L.   S. 

suppose,  went  my  head  once  more.  She 
misunderstood,  and  thought  the  blow  had 
fallen ;  I  had  awakened  to  the  discovery, 
always  dreaded  by  her,  that  I  had  written 
myself  dry ;  I  was  no  better  than  an 
empty  ink-bottle.  She  wAig  her  hands, 
but  indignation  came  to  l^^Bkh  my  ex- 
planation, which  was  that  while  R.  L.  S. 
was  at  it  we  others  were  only  'prentices 
cutting  our  fingers  on  his  tools.  ^  I  could 
never  thole  his  books,'  said  my  mother 
immediately,  and  indeed  vindictively. 

^You  have  not  read  any  of  them,'  I 
reminded  her. 

^  And  never  will,'  said  she  with  spirit. 

And  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  called 
him  a  dark  character  that  very  day.  For 
weeks  too,  if  not  for  months,  she  adhered 
to  her  determination  not  to  read  him, 
though  I,  having  come  to  my  senses  and 

seen  that  there  is  a  place  for  the  'prentice, 
^33 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

was  taking  a  pleasure,  almost  malicious,  in 
putting  ^  The  Master  of  Ballantrae '  in  her 
way.  I  would  place  it  on  her  table  so  that 
it  said  good-morning  to  her  when  she  rose. 
She  would  frown,  and  carrying  it  down- 
stairs, as  if  shoAad  it  in  the  tongs,  replace 
it  on  its  ^^P^helf.  I  would  wrap  it  up 
in  the  cover  she  had  made  for  the  latest 
Carlyle  :  she  would  skin  it  contemptuously 
and  again  bring  it  down.  I  would  hide 
her  spectacles  in  it,  and  lay  it  on  top  of . 
the  clothes-basket  and  prop  it  up  invit- 
ingly open  against  her  tea-pot.  And  at 
last  I  got  her,  though  I  forget  by  which  of 
many  contrivances.  What  I  recall  vividly 
is  a  key-hole  view,  to  which  another  mem-;- 
ber  of  the  family  invited  me.  Then  I  saw 
my  mother  wrapped  up  in  ^  The  Master  of 
Ballantrae'  and  muttering  the  music  to 
herself,  nodding  her  head  in  approval,  and 

taking  a  stealthy  glance  at  the  foot  of  each 
134 


R.   L.   S. 

page  before  she  began  at  the  top.  Never- 
theless she  had  an  ear  for  the  door,  for 
when  I  bounced  in  she  had  been  too  clever 
for  me  ;  there  was  no  book  to  be  seen,  only 
an  apron  on  her  lap  and  she  was  gazing  out 
at  the  window.  Some  such  conversation 
as  this  followed : 

'  You  have  been  sitting  very  quietly, 
mother.' 

^  I  always  sit  quietly,  I  never  do  any- 
thing, I  'm  just  a  finished  stocking.' 

^  Have  you  been  reading  ? ' 

*  Do  I  ever  read  at  this  time  of 
day  ? ' 

*  What  is  that  in  your  lap  ? ' 
^  Just  my  apron.' 

^  Is  that  a  book  beneath  the  apron  ?  * 
^  It  might  be  a  book.' 
'  Let  me  see.' 

^  Go  away  with  you  to  your  work.' 
But  I   lifted   the   apron.     '  Why,'^  it 's 
135 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

"The  Master  of  Ballantrae ! " '  I  ex- 
claimed, shocked. 

^  So  It  Is ! '  said  my  mother,  equally 
surprised.  But  I  looked  sternly  at  her, 
and  perhaps  she  blushed. 

^  Well  what  do  you  think :  not  nearly 
equal  to  mine  ? '  said  I  with  humour. 

^  Nothing  like  them,'  she  said  deter- 
minedly. 

^  Not  a  bit,'  said  I,  though  whether  with  a 
smile  or  a  groan  Is  Immaterial ;  they  would 
have  meant  the  same  thing.  Should  I  put 
the  book  back  on  Its  shelf?  I  asked,  and 
she  replied  that  I  could  put  It  wherever  I 
liked  for  all  she  cared,  so  long  as  I  took  It 
out  of  her  sight  (the  Implication  was  that 
It  had  stolen  on  to  her  lap  while  she 
was  looking  out  at  the  window).  My  be- 
haviour may  seem  small,  but  I  gave  her 
a  last  chance,  for  I  said  that  some  peo- 
ple found  It  a  book  there  was  no  put- 
136 


R.   L.    S. 

ting  down  until  they  reached  the  last 
page. 

^  I'm  no  that  kind/  replied  my  mother. 

Nevertheless    our    old   game   with    the 

haver  of  a   thing,  as    she    called   it,   was 

continued,  with  this  difference,  that  it  was 

now  she  who    carried  the  book   covertly 

upstairs,  and    I  who    replaced   it  on    the 

shelf,  and   several    times  we  caught   each 

other  in  the  act,  but  not  a  word  said  either 

of    us ;    we    were    grown    self-conscious. 

Much  of  the  play  no  doubt  I  forget,  but 

one  incident  I  remember  clearly.     She  had 

come  down  to*  sit  beside  me  while  I  wrote, 

and  sometimes,  when  I  looked  up,  her  eye 

was  not  on  me,  but  on  the  shelf  where  ^  The 

Master  of  Ballantrae'  stood  inviting  her. 

Mr.  Stevenson's  books  are  not  for  the  shelf, 

they  are  for  the  hand ;   even  when  you  lay 

them  down,  let  it  be  on  the  table  for  the 

next  comer.     Being  the  most  sociable  that 
137 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

man  has  penned  in  our  time,  they  feel 
very  lonely  up  there  in  a  stately  row.  I 
think  their  eye  is  on  you  the  moment 
you  enter  the  room,  and  so  you  are  drawn 
to  look  at  them,  and  you  take  a  volume 
down  with  the  impulse  that  induces  one 
to  unchain  the  dog.  And  the  result  is 
not  dissimilar,  for  in  another  moment  you 
two  are  at  play.  Is  there  any  other 
modern  writer  who  gets  round  you  in  this 
way  ?  Well,  he  had  given  my  mother 
the  look  which  in  the  ball-room  means, 
'Ask  me  for  this  waltz,'  and  she  et- 
tied  to  do  it,  but  felt  that  her  more  duti- 
ful course  was  to  sit  out  the  dance  with 
this  other  less  entertaining  partner.  I 
wrote  on  doggedly,  but  could  hear  the 
whispering. 

'  Am    I    to   be   a   wall-flower  ? '    asked 
James    Durie    reproachfully.      (It    must 

have  been  leap-year.) 
138 


R.   L.   S. 

^  Speak  lower,'  replied  my  mother,  with 
an  uneasy  look  at  me. 

^  Pooh  ! '  said  James  contemptuously, 
^  that  kail-runtle  ! ' 

'  I  winna  have  him  miscalled,'  said  my 
mother,  frowning. 

^  I  am  done  with  him,'  said  James 
(wiping  his  cane  with  his  cambric  hand- 
kerchief), and  his  sword  clattered  deli- 
ciously  (I  cannot  think  this  was  accidental), 
which  made  my  mother  sigh.  Like  the 
man  he  was,  he  followed  up  his  advantage 
with  a  comparison  that  made  me  dip 
viciously. 

^  A  prettier  sound  that,'  said  he,  clank- 
ing his  sword  again,  ^  than  the  clack-clack 
of  your  young  friend's  shuttle.' 

*  Whist ! '  cried  my  mother,  who  had 
seen  me  dip. 

'Then  give  me  your  arm,'  said  James, 
lowering  his  voice. 

139 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

'I  dare  not/  answered  my  mother. 
*  He  's  so  touchy  about  you.' 

^  Come,  come/  he  pressed  her,  ^  you  are 
certain  to  do  it  sooner  or  later,  so  why  not 
now? ' 

^Wait  till  he  has  gone  for  his  walk,* 
said  my  mother ;  ^  and,  forby  that,  I  'm 
ower   old  to   dance  with   you.' 

^  How  old  are  you  ? '  he  inquired. 

*  You  're  gey  an'  pert ! '  cried  my 
mother. 

^  Are  you  seventy  ? ' 

^  Off  and  on,'  she  admitted. 

*  Pooh,'  he  said,  ^  a  mere  girl ! ' 

She  replied  instantly,  ^  I  'm  no  to  be 
catched  with  chaff';  but  she  smiled  and 
rose  as  if  he  had  stretched  out  his  hand 
and  got  her  by  the   finger-tip. 

After  that  they  whispered  so  low  (which 

they  could  do   as   they  were  now  much 

nearer  each  other)  that  I  could  catch  only 
140 


R.   L.   S. 

one  remark.  It  came  from  James,  and 
seems  to  show  the  tenor  of  their 
whisperings,  for  his  words  were,  ^  Easily 
enough,  if  you  slip  me  beneath  your 
shawl.' 

That  is  what  she  did,  and  furthermore 
she  left  the  room  guiltily,  muttering  some- 
thing about  redding  up  the  drawers.  I 
suppose  I  smiled  wanly  to  myself,  or  con- 
science must  have  been  nibbling  at  my 
mother,  for  in  less  than  five  minutes  she 
was  back,  carrying  her  accomplice  openly, 
and  she  thrust  him  with  positive  vicious- 
ness  into  the  place  where  my  Stevenson 
had  lost  a  tooth  (as  the  writer  whom  he 
most  resembled  would  have  said).  And 
then  like  a  good  mother  she  took  up  one 
of  her  son's  books  and  read  it  most  de- 
terminedly. It  had  become  a  touching 
incident  to  me,  and  I  remember  how  we 

there  and  then  agreed  upon  a  compromise : 
141 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

she  was  to  read  the  enticing  thing  just  to 
convince  herself  of  its  inferiority. 

'  The  Master  of  Ballantrae '  is  not  the 
best.  Conceive  the  glory,  which  was  my 
mother's,  of  knowing  from  a  trustworthy 
source  that  there  are  at  least  three  better 
awaiting  you  on  the  same  shelf  She  did 
not  know  Alan  Breck  yet,  and  he  was  as 
anxious  to  step  down  as  Mr.  Bally  him- 
self. John  Silver  was  there,  getting  into 
his  leg,  so  that  she  should  not  have  to 
wait  a  moment,  and  roaring,  ^  I  '11  lay  to 
that ! '  when  she  told  me  consolingly  that 
she  could  not  thole  pirate  stories.  Not  to 
know  these  gentlemen,  what  is  it  like  ?  It 
is  like  never  having  been  in  love.  But 
they  are  in  the  house  !  That  is  like  know- 
ing that  you  will  fall  in  love  to-morrow 
morning.  With  one  word,  by  drawing  one 
mournful  face,  I  could  have  got  my  mother 

to  abjure  the  jam-shelf —  nay,  I  might  have 
142 


R.   L.   S. 

managed  it  by  merely  saying  that  she 
had  enjoyed  ^  The  Master  of  Ballantrae.' 
For  you  must  remember  that  she  only  read 
it  to  persuade  herself  (and  me)  of  its  un- 
worthiness,  and  that  the  reason  she  wanted 
to  read  the  others  was  to  get  further  proof. 
All  this  she  made  plain  to  me,  eyeing  me 
a  little  anxiously  the  while,  and  of  course 
I  accepted  the  explanation.  Alan  is  the 
biggest  child  of  them  all,  and  I  doubt  not 
that  she  thought  so,  but  curiously  enough 
her  views  of  him  are  among  the  things  I 
have  forgotten.  But  how  enamoured  she 
was  of  ^  Treasure  Island,'  and  how  faithful 
she  tried  to  be  to  me  all  the  time  she  was 
reading  it !  I  had  to  put  my  hands  over 
her  eyes  to  let  her  know  that  I  had 
entered  the  room,  and  even  then  she 
might  try  to  read  between  my  fingers, 
coming  to  herself  presently,  however,  to 

say  ^  It's  a  haver  of  a  book.' 
143 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

'  Those  pirate  stories  are  so  uninterest- 
ing/ I  would  reply  without  fear,  for  she 
was  too  engrossed  to  see  through  me. 
*  Do  you  think  you  will  finish  this  one  ? ' 

*  I  may  as  well  go  on  with  it  since  I  have 
begun  it/  my  mother  says,  so  slily  that 
my  sister  and  I  shake  our  heads  at  each 
other  to  imply,  ^  Was  there  ever  such  a 
woman  ! ' 

'  There  are  none  of  those  one-legged 
scoundrels  in  my  books,'  I  say. 

*  Better  without  them,'  she  replies 
promptly. 

^  I  wonder,  mother,  what  it  is  about  the 
man  that  so  infatuates  the  public  ? ' 

^  He  takes  no  hold  of  me,'  she  insists. 
^  I  would  a  hantle  rather  read  your  books.' 

I  offer  obligingly  to  bring  one  of  them 
to  her,  and  now  she  looks  at  me  suspi- 
ciously.    ^  You  surely  believe  I  like  yours 

best,'  she  says  with  instant  anxiety,  and  I 
144 


R.   L.   S. 

soothe  her  by  assurances,  and  retire  advis- 
ing her  to  read  on,  just  to  see  if  she  can 
find  out  how  he  misleads  the  pubHc.  ^  Oh, 
I  may  take  a  look  at  it  again  by  and  by,' 
she  says  indifferently,  but  nevertheless 
the  probability  is  that  as  the  door  shuts 
the  book  opens,  as  if  by  some  mechanical 
contrivance.  I  remember  how  she  read 
^  Treasure  Island,'  holding  it  close  to  the 
ribs  of  the  fire  (because  she  could  not 
spare  a  moment  to  rise  and  light  the  gas), 
and  how,  when  bed-time  came,  and  we 
coaxed,  remonstrated,  scolded,  she  said 
quite  fiercely,  clinging  to  the  book,  ^  I 
dinna  lay  my  head  on  a  pillow  this  night 
till  I  see  how  that  laddie  got  out  of  the 
barrel/ 

After  this,  I  think,  he  was  as  bewitching 
as  the  laddie  in  the  barrel  to  her  —  Was 
he  not  always  a  laddie  in  the  barrel  him- 
self,  climbing  in  for  apples  while  we  all 
10  145 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

stood  around,  like  gamins,  waiting  for  a 
bite  ?  He  was  the  spirit  of  boyhood  tug- 
ging at  the  skirts  of  this  old  world  of  ours 
and  compelling  it  to  come  back  and  play. 
And  I  suppose  my  mother  felt  this,  as  so 
many  have  felt  it :  like  others  she  was  a 
little  scared  at  first  to  find  herself  skip- 
ping again,  with  this  masterful  child  at 
the  rope,  but  soon  she  gave  him  her  hand 
and  set  off  with  him  for  the  meadow,  not 
an  apology  between  the  two  of  them  for 
the  author  left  behind.  But  never  to  the 
end  did  she  admit  (in  words)  that  he  had 
a  way  with  him  which  was  beyond  her 
son.  ^  Silk  and  sacking,  that  is  what  we 
are,'  she  was  informed,  to  which  she 
would  reply  obstinately,  ^Well,  then,  I 
prefer  sacking.' 

^  But  if  he  had  been  your  son  ? ' 

'  But  he  is  not' 

^  You  wish  he  were  ? ' 
146 


R.   L.   S. 

^  I  dinna  deny  but  what  I   could  have 
found  room  for  him.' 

And  still  at  times  she  would  smear  him 
with  the  name  of  black  (to  his  delight 
when  he  learned  the  reason).  That 
was  when  some  podgy  red-sealed  blue- 
crossed  letter  arrived  from  Vailima,  in- 
viting me  to  journey  thither.  (His  direc- 
tions were,  *You  take  the  boat  at  San 
Francisco,  and  then  my  place  is  the 
second  to  the  left.')  Even  London 
seemed  to  her  to  carry  me  so  far  away 
that  I  often  took  a  week  to  the  journey 
(the  first  six  days  in  getting  her  used  to 
the  idea),  and  these  letters  terrified  her. 
It  was  not  the  finger  of  Jim  Hawkins 
she  now  saw  beckoning  me  across  the 
seas,  it  was  John  Silver,  waving  a  crutch. 
Seldom,  I  believe,  did  I  read  straight 
through  one  of  these  Vailima  letters ; 
when  in  the  middle  I  suddenly  remem- 
147 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

bered  who  was  upstairs  and  what  she 
was  probably  doing,  and  I  ran  to  her, 
three  steps  at  a  jump,  to  find  her,  hps 
pursed,  hands  folded,  a  picture  of  gloom. 

^  I  have  a  letter  from ' 

^  So  I  have  heard/ 

^  Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ?  * 

'No: 

'  Can  you  not  abide  him  ? ' 

^  I  canna  thole  him/ 

^  Is  he  a  black  ? ' 

'  He  is  all  that/ 

Well,   Vailima   was   the   one    spot   on 

earth  I  had  any  great  craving  to  visit,  but 

I  think  she  always   knew  I  would  never 

leave  her.    Sometime,  she  said,  she  should 

like  me  to  go,  but  not  until  she  was  laid 

away.    ^  And  how  small  I  have  grown  this 

last  winter.     Look  at  my  wrists.     It  canna 

be   long  now.'     No,  I  never  thought  of 

going,  was   never   absent  for  a  day  from 
148 


R.   L.   S. 

her  without  reluctance,  and  never  walked 
so  quickly  as  when  I  was  going  back. 
In  the  meantime  that  happened  which 
put  an  end  for  ever  to  my  scheme  of 
travel.  I  shall  never  go  up  the  Road  of 
Loving  Hearts  now,  on  ^  a  wonderful  clear 
night  of  stars,'  to  meet  the  man  coming 
toward  me  on  a  horse.  It  is  still  a  wonder- 
ful clear  night  of  stars,  but  the  road  is 
empty.  So  I  never  saw  the  dear  king  of 
us  all.  But  before  he  had  written  books 
he  was  in  my  part  of  the  country  with  a 
fishing  wand  in  his  hand,  and  I  like  to 
think  that  I  was  the  boy  who  met  him 
that  day  by  Queen  Margaret's  burn, 
where  the  rowans  are,  and  busked  a 
fly  for  him,  and  stood  watching,  while  his 
lithe  figure  rose  and  fell  as  he  cast  and 
hinted  back  from  the  crystal  waters  of 
Noran-side. 


149 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    PANIC    IN    THE    HOUSE 

I  WAS  sitting  at  my  desk  in  London  when  a 
telegram  came  announcing  that  my  mother 
was  again  dangerously  ill,  and  I  seized  my 
hat  and  hurried  to  the  station.  It  is 
not  a  memory  of  one  night  only.  A  score 
of  times,  I  am  sure,  I  was  called  north 
thus  suddenly,  and  reached  our  little  town 
trembling,  head  out  at  railway-carriage 
window  for  a  glance  at  a  known  face 
which  would  answer  the  question  on  mine. 
These  illnesses  came  as  regularly  as  the 
backend  of  the  year,  but  were  less  regular 
in  going,  and  through  them  all,  by  night 
and  by  day,  I  see  my  sister  moving  so  un- 
we'aryingly,  so  lovingly,  though  with  failing 
150 


A   PANIC    IN   THE    HOUSE 

strength,  that  I  bow  my  head  in  reverence 
for  her.  She  was  wearing  herself  done. 
The  doctor  advised  us  to  engage  a  nurse, 
but  the  mere  word  frightened  my  mother, 
and  we  got  between  her  and  the  door  as 
if  the  woman  was  already  on  the  stair. 
To  have  a  strange  woman  in  my  mother's 
room  —  you  who  are  used  to  them  cannot 
conceive  what  it  meant  to  us. 

Then  we  must  have  a  servant.  This 
seemed  only  less  horrible.  My  father 
turned  up  his  sleeves  and  clutched  the 
besom.  I  tossed  aside  my  papers,  and  was 
ready  to  run  the  errands.  He  answered 
the  door,  I  kept  the  fires  going,  he  gave  me 
a  lesson  in  cooking,  I  showed  him  how  to 
make  beds,  one  of  us  wore  an  apron.  It 
was  not  for  long.  I  was  led  to  my  desk, 
the  newspaper  was  put  into  my  father's 
hand.  ^  But  a  servant ! '  we  cried,  and 
would  have  fallen  to  again.     ^  No  servant 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

comes  into  this  house/  said  my  sister  quite 
fiercely,  and,  oh,  but  my  mother  was  re- 
lieved to  hear  her.  There  were  many  such 
scenes,  a  year  of  them,  I  daresay,  before 
we  yielded. 

I  cannot  say  which  of  us  felt  it  most. 
In  London  I  was  used  to  servants,  and  in 
moments  of  irritation  would  ring  for  them 
furiously,  though  doubtless  my  manner 
changed  as  they  opened  the  door.  I  have 
even  held  my  own  with  gentlemen  in 
plush,  giving  one  my  hat,  another  my 
stick,  and  a  third  my  coat,  and  all  done 
with  little  more  trouble  than  I  should 
have  expended  in  putting  the  three  articles 
on  the  chair  myself.  But  this  bold  deed, 
and  other  big  things  of  the  kind,  I  did 
that  I  might  tell  my  mother  of  them 
afterwards,  while  I  sat  on  the  end  of  her 
bed,  and  her  face  beamed  with  astonish- 
ment and  mirth. 

152 


A   PANIC   IN   THE    HOUSE 

From  my  earliest  days  I  had  seen  ser- 
vants. The  manse  had  a  servant,  the 
bank  had  another ;  one  of  their  uses  was 
to  pounce  upon,  and  carry  away  in  stately 
manner,  certain  naughty  boys  who  played 
with  me.  The  banker  did  not  seem  really 
great  to  me,  but  his  servant  —  oh,  yes. 
Her  boots  cheeped  all  the  way  down  the 
church  aisle  ;  it  was  common  report  that 
she  had  flesh  every  day  for  her  dinner; 
instead  of  meeting  her  lover  at  the  pump 
she  walked  him  into  the  country,  and  he 
returned  with  wild  roses  in  his  buttonhole, 
his  hand  up  to  hide  them,  and  on  his  face 
the  troubled  look  of  those  who  know  that 
if  they  take  this  lady  they  must  give  up 
drinking  from  the  saucer  for  evermore. 
For  the  lovers  were  really  common  men 
until  she  gave  them  that  glance  over  the 
shoulder  which,  I  have  noticed,  is  the  fatal 

gift  of  servants. 

153 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

According  to  legend  we  once  had  a 
servant  —  in  my  childhood  I  could  show 
the  mark  of  it  on  my  forehead,  and  even 
point  her  out  to  other  boys,  though  she 
was  now  merely  a  wife  with  a  house  of  her 
own.  But  even  while  I  boasted  I  doubted. 
Reduced  to  life-size  she  may  have  been 
but  a  woman  who  came  in  to  help.  I  shall 
say  no  more  about  her  lest  some  one 
comes  forward  to  prove  that  she  went 
home  at  night. 

Never  shall  I  forget  my  first  servant.     I 

was  eight  or  nine,  in   velveteen,  diamond 

socks  (^  Cross  your  legs  when  they  look 

at   you,'  my  mother    had  said,  ^and  put 

your  thumb  in  your  pocket  and  leave  the 

top  of  your  handkerchief  showing'),  and  I 

had  travelled  by  rail  to  visit  a   relative. 

He  had  a  servant,  and  as  I  was  to  be  his 

guest  she  must  be  my  servant  also  for  the 

time  being  —  you  may  be  sure  I  had  got 
154 


A   PANIC   IN   THE    HOUSE 

my  mother  to  put  this  plainly  before  me 
ere  I  set  off.  My  relative  met  me  at  the 
station,  but  I  wasted  no  time  in  hoping  I 
found  him  well.  I  did  not  even  cross  my 
legs  for  him,  so  eager  was  I  to  hear  whether 
she  was  still  there.  A  sister  greeted  me 
at  the  door,  but  I  chafed  at  having  to  be 
kissed ;  at  once  I  made  for  the  kitchen, 
where,  I  knew,  they  reside,  and  there  she 
was,  and  I  crossed  my  legs  and  put  one 
thumb  in  my  pocket,  and  the  handker- 
chief was  showing.  Afterwards  I  stopped 
strangers  on  the  highway  with  an  offer 
to  show  her  to  them  through  the  kitchen 
window,  and  I  doubt  not  the  first  letter 
I  ever  wrote  told  my  mother  what  they 
are  like  when  they  are  so  near  that  you 
can   put  your  fingers  into   them. 

But  now  when  we  could  have  servants 
for  ourselves  I   shrank  from  the  thought. 

It  would    not   be   the    same    house;    we 
155 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

should  have  to  dissemble ;  I  saw  myself 
speaking  English  the  long  day  through. 
You  only  know  the  shell  of  a  Scot  until 
you  have  entered  his  home  circle ;  in  his 
office,  in  clubs,  at  social  gatherings  where 
you  and  he  seem  to  be  getting  on  so 
well  he  is  really  a  house  with  all  the 
shutters  closed  and  the  door  locked.  He 
is  not  opaque  of  set  purpose,  often  it  is 
against  his  will — it  is  certainly  against 
mine,  I  try  to  keep  my  shutters  open  and 
my  foot  in  the  door  but  they  will  bang 
to.  In  many  ways  my  mother  was  as 
reticent  as  myself,  though  her  manners 
were  as  gracious  as  mine  were  rough  (in 
vain,  alas,  all  the  honest  oiling  of  them), 
and  my  sister  was  the  most  reserved  of  us 
all ;  you  might  at  times  see  a  light  through 
one  of  my  chinks :  she  was  double-shut- 
tered.    Now,   it   seems    to   be    a   law  of 

nature  that  we  must  ^how  our  true  selves 
156 


A   PANIC   IN   THE    HOUSE 

at  some  time,  and  as  the  Scot  must  do 
it  at  home,  and  squeeze  a  day  into  an 
hour,  what  follows  is  that  there  he  is  self- 
revealing  in  the  superlative  degree,  the 
feelings  so  long  dammed  up  overflow,  and 
thus  a  Scotch  family  are  probably  better 
acquainted  with  each  other,  and  more 
ignorant  of  the  life  outside  their  circle, 
than  any  other  family  in  the  world.  And 
as  knowledge  is  sympathy,  the  affection 
existing  between  them  is  almost  painful 
in  its  intensity ;  they  have  not  more  to 
give  than  their  neighbours,  but  it  is  be- 
stowed upon  a  few  instead  of  being  dis- 
tributed among  many  ;  they  are  reputed 
niggardly,  but  for  family  affection  at  least 
they  pay  in  gold.  In  this,  I  believe, 
we  shall  find  the  true  explanation  why 
Scotch  literature,  since  long  before  the 
days  of  Burns,  has  been  so  often  in- 
spired by  the  domestic  hearth  and 
157 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

has  treated   it   with    a   passionate    under- 
standing. 

Must  a  woman  come  into  our  house  and 
discover  that  I  was  not  such  a  dreary- 
dog  as  I  had  the  reputation  of  being  ? 
Was  I  to  be  seen  at  last  with  the  veil  of 
dourness  lifted  ?  My  company  voice  is  so 
low  and  unimpressive  that  my  first  remark 
is  merely  an  intimation  that  I  am  about  to 
speak  (like  the  whirr  of  the  clock  before  it 
strikes) :  must  it  be  revealed  that  I  had 
another  voice,  that  there  was  one  door  I 
never  opened  without  leaving  my  reserve 
on  the  mat  ?  Ah,  that  room,  must  its 
secrets  be  disclosed  ?  So  joyous  they  were 
when  my  mother  was  well,  no  wonder  we 
were  merry.  Again  and  again  she  had 
been  given  back  to  us  ;  it  was  for  the  glori- 
ous to-day  we  thanked  God ;  in  our  hearts 
we  knew  and  in  our  prayers  confessed  that 
the  fill  of  delight  had  been  given  us,  what- 
iS8 


A   PANIC   IN   THE   HOUSE 

ever  might  befall.  We  had  not  to  wait  till 
all  was  over  to  know  its  value  ;  my  mother 
used  to  say,  ^We  never  understand  how 
little  we  need  in  this  world  until  we  know 
the  loss  of  it/  and  there  can  be  few  truer 
sayings,  but  during  her  last  years  we 
exulted  daily  in  the  possession  of  her  as 
much  as  we  can  exult  In  her  memory.  No 
wonder,  I  say,  that  we  were  merry,  but  we 
liked  to  show  it  to  God  alone,  and  to  Him 
only  our  agony  during  those  many  night- 
alarms,  when  lights  flickered  in  the  house 
and  white  faces  were  round  my  mother's 
bedside.  Not  for  other  eyes  those  long 
vigils  when,  night  about,  we  sat  watching, 
nor  the  awful  nights  when  we  stood  to- 
gether, teeth  clenched  —  waiting  —  it  must 
be  now.  And  it  was  not  then ;  her  hand 
became  cooler,  her  breathing  more  easy ; 
she   smiled  to   us.     Once    more  I   could 

work  by  snatches,  and  was  glad,  but  what 
159 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

was  the  result  to  me  compared  to  the  joy 

of  hearing  that  voice  from  the  other  room  ? 

There  lay  all  the  work  I  was  ever  proud  of, 

the  rest  is  but  honest  craftsmanship  done 

to  give  her  coal  and  food  and  softer  pillows. 

My  thousand  letters  that  she  so  carefully 

preserved,    always  sleeping   with   the  last 

beneath  the  sheet,  where  one  was  found 

when  she  died  —  they  are  the  only  writing 

of  mine  of  which  I   shall  ever  boast.     I 

would  not  there  had  been  one  less  though 

I   could  have  written  an  immortal  book 

for  it. 

How   my  sister  toiled  —  to  prevent  a 

stranger's  getting  any  footing  in  the  house  ! 

And  how,  with  the  same  object,  my  mother 

strove  to  ^  do  for  herself  once  more.     She 

pretended  that  she  was  always  well  now, 

and  concealed  her  ailments  so  craftily  that 

we  had  to  probe  for  them  : 

'  I  think  you  are  not  feeling  well  to-day  ? ' 
i6o 


A   PANIC   IN   THE   HOUSE 

*  I  am  perfectly  well.' 
^  Where  is  the  pain  ? ' 

'  I  have  no  pain  to  speak  of.' 

*  Is  it  at  your  heart  ?  * 
'No.' 

*  Is  your  breathing  hurting  you  ? ' 
'  Not  it.' 

'  Do  you  feel  those  stounds  in  your  head 

again  ? ' 

'  No,  no,  I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  the 

matter  with  me.' 

'  Have  you  a  pain  in  your  side  ? ' 

'  Really,    it 's  most    provoking    I  canna 

put   my    hand    to    my  side  without  your 

thinking  I  have  a  pain  there.' 
'  You  have  a  pain  in  your  side  ! ' 
'  I  might  have  a  pain  in  my  side.' 
'  And  you  are  trying  to  hide  it !     Is  it 

very  painful  ? ' 

'  It 's  —  it 's  no  so  bad  but  what  I  can 

bear  it.' 

II  i6r 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

Which  of  these  two  gave  in  first  I 
cannot  tell,  though  to  me  fell  the  duty  of 
persuading  them,  for  whichever  she  was 
she  rebelled  as  soon  as  the  other  showed 
signs  of  yielding,  so  that  sometimes  I 
had  two  converts  in  the  week  but  never 
both  on  the  same  day.  I  would  take  them 
separately,  and  press  the  one  to  yield  for  the 
sake  of  the  other,  but  they  saw  so  easily 
through  my  artifice.  My  mother  might  go 
bravely  to  my  sister  and  say,  ^  I  have  been 
thinking  it  over,  and  I  believe  I  would  like 
a  servant  fine  —  once  we  got  used  to  her.' 

^  Did  he  tell  you  to  say  that  ? '  asks 
my  sister  sharply. 

^  I  say  it  of  my  own  free  will.' 

*  He  put  you  up  to  it,  I  am  sure,  and  he 
told  you  not  to  let  on  that  you  did  it  to 
lighten  my  work.' 

^  Maybe  he  did,  but  I  think  we  should 

get  one.' 

162 


A   PANIC    IN   THE    HOUSE 

^  Not  for  my  sake/  says  my  sister  obsti- 
nately, and  then  my  mother  comes  ben  to 
me  to  say  delightedly,  ^  She  winna  listen 
to  reason  ! ' 

But  at  last  a  servant  was  engaged;  we 
might  be  said  to  be  at  the  window,  gloomily 
waiting  for  her  now,  and  it  was  with  such 
words  as  these  that  we  sought  to  comfort 
each  other  and  ourselves : 

^  She  will  go  early  to  her  bed/ 

^  She  needna  often  be  seen  upstairs/ 

^  We  '11  set  her  to  the  walking  every 
day/ 

^  There  will  be  a  many  errands  for  her 
to  run.  We  '11  tell  her  to  take  her  time 
over  them.' 

^  Three  times  she  shall  go  to  the  kirk 
every  Sabbath,  and  we'll  egg  her  on  to 
attending  the  lectures  in  the  hall.' 

^  She  is  sure  to  have  friends  in  the  town. 

We  '11  let  her  visit  them  often.' 
163 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

'  If  she  dares  to  come  into  your  room, 
mother ! ' 

^  Mind  this,  every  one  of  you,  servant  or 
no  servant,  I  fold  all  the  linen  mysel/ 

'  She  shall  not  get  cleaning  out  the  east 
room/ 

^  Nor  putting  my  chest  of  drawers  in 
order/ 

^  Nor  tidying  up  my  manuscripts/ 

^  I  hope  she  's  a  reader,  though.  You 
could  set  her  down  with  a  book,  and  then 
close  the  door  canny  on  her/ 

And  so  on.  Was  ever  servant  awaited 
so  apprehensively  ?  And  then  she  came 
—  at  an  anxious  time,  too,  when  her 
worth  could  be  put  to  the  proof  at  once  — 
and  from  first  to  last  she  was  a  treasure. 
I  know  not  what  we  should  have  done 
without  her. 


164 


CHAPTER   IX 


MY    HEROINE 


When  it  was  known  that  I  had  begun 
another  story  my  mother  might  ask  what 
it  was  to  be  about  this  time. 

^  Fine  we  can  guess  who  it  is  about/  my 
sister  would  say  pointedly. 

^  Maybe  you  can  guess,  but  it  is  be- 
yond me/  says  my  mother,  with  the  meek- 
ness of  one  who  knows  that  she  is  a  dull 
person. 

My  sister  scorned  her  at  such  times. 
^  What  woman  is  in  all  his  books  ? '  she 
would  demand. 

^  I  'm  sure  I  canna  say/  replies  my 
mother    determinedly.       *  I    thought    the 

women  were  different  every  time.' 
i6s 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

^  Mother,  I  wonder  you  can  be  so  auda- 
cious !  Fine  you  know  what  woman  I 
mean/ 

^  How  can  I  know  ?  What  woman  is  it  ? 
You  should  bear  in  mind  that  I  hinna  your 
cleverness'  (they  were  constantly  giving 
each  other  little  knocks). 

'  I  won't  give  you  the  satisfaction  of 
saying  her  name.  But  this  I  will  say,  it 
is  high  time  he  was  keeping  her  out  of  his 
books.' 

And  then  as  usual  my  mother  would 
give  herself  away  unconsciously.  ^  That  is 
what  I  tell  him/  she  says  chuckling,  ^  and 
he  tries  to  keep  me  out,  but  he  canna; 
it 's  more  than  he  can  do  ! ' 

On  an  evening  after  my  mother  had  gone 

to  bed,  the  first  chapter  would  be  brought 

upstairs,  and  I  read,  sitting  at  the  foot  of 

the  bed,  while  my  sister  watched  to  make 

my  mother  behave  herself,  and  my  father 
1 66 


MY   HEROINE 

cried  H'sh  !  when  there  were  interruptions. 
All  would  go  well  at  the  start,  the  reflec- 
tions were  accepted  with  a  little  nod  of  the 
head,  the  descriptions  of  scenery  as  ruts 
on  the  road  that  must  be  got  over  at  a 
walking  pace  (my  mother  did  not  care  for 
scenery,  and  that  is  why  there  is  so  little  )> 
of  it  in  my  books).  But  now  I  am  reading 
too  quickly,  a  little  apprehensively,  because 
I  know  that  the  next  paragraph  begins 
with  —  let  us  say  with,  ^  Along  this  path 
came  a  woman ' :  I  had  intended  to  rush  on 
here  in  a  loud  bullying  voice,  but  ^  Along 
this  path  came  a  woman '  I  read,  and  stop. 
Did  I  hear  a  faint  sound  from  the  other 
end  of  the  bed  ?  Perhaps  I  did  not ;  I  may 
only  have  been  listening  for  it,  but  I  falter 
and  look  up.  My  sister  and  I  look  sternly 
at  my  mother.  She  bites  her  under-lip  and 
clutches  the  bed  with  both  hands,  really 

she  is   doing  her   best  for  me,   but  first 
167 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

comes  a  smothered  gurgling  sound,  then 
her  hold  on  herself  relaxes  and  she  shakes 
with  mirth. 

^  That 's  a  way  to  behave ! '  cries  my  sister. 

^  I  cannot  help  it/  my  mother  gasps. 

^  And  there 's  nothing  to  laugh  at' 

^  It 's  that  woman/  my  mother  explains 
unnecessarily. 

^  Maybe  she 's  not  the  woman  you  think 
her/  I  say,  crushed. 

^  Maybe  not/  says  my  mother  doubt- 
fully.    ^  What  was  her  name  ? ' 

^  Her  name/  I  answer  with  triumph, 
^  was  not  Margaret ' ;  but  this  makes  her 
ripple  again.  ^  I  have  so  many  names 
nowadays,'    she   mutters. 

^  H'sh  ! '  says  my  father,  and  the  reading 
is  resumed. 

Perhaps    the    woman    who  came  along 

the  path  was  of  tall  and   majestic  figure, 

which  should  have  shown  my  mother  that 
i68 


MY   HEROINE 

I  had  contrived  to  start  my  train  without 
her  this  time.     But  it  did  not. 

*  What  are  you  laughing  at  now  ? '  says 
my  sister  severely.  ^  Do  you  not  hear  that 
she  was  a  tall,  majestic  woman  ?  ' 

Mt  's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  it  said 
of  her/  replies  my  mother. 
'  But  she  is.' 
^  Ke  fy,  havers  ! ' 
^  The  book  says  it.' 

*  There  will  be  a  many  queer  things  in 
the  book.     What  was  she  wearing  ? ' 

I  have  not  described  her  clothes.  ^  That 's 
a  mistake/  says  my  mother.  ^  When  I 
come  upon  a  womar^*  in  a  book,  the  first 
thing  I  want  to  know  about  her  is  whether 
she  was  good-looking,  and  the  second, 
how  she  was  put  on.' 

The  woman  on  the  path  was  eighteen 

years  of  age,  and  of  remarkable  beauty. 

^  That  settles  you,'  says  my  sister. 
169 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

'  I  was  no  beauty  at  eighteen/  my  mother 
admits,  but  here  my  father  interferes  un- 
expectedly. ^  There  wasna  your  Hke  in  this 
countryside  at  eighteen/  says  he  stoutly. 

^  Pooh  ! '  says  she,  well-pleased. 

^  Were  you  plain,  then  ? '  we  ask. 

^  Sal/  she  rephes  briskly,  ^  I  was  far 
from  plain.' 

'  H'sh ! ' 

Perhaps  in  the  next  chapter  this  lady 
(or  another)   appears  in  a  carriage. 

^  I  assure  you  we  're  mounting  in  the 
world,'  I  hear  my  mother  murmur,  but  I 
hurry  on  without  looking  up.  The  lady 
lives  in  a  house  where  there  are  footmen  — 
but  the  footmen  have  come  on  the  scene 
too  hurriedly.  ^  This  is  more  than  I  can 
stand,'  gasps  my  mother,  and  just  as  she 
is  getting  the  better  of  a  fit  of  laughter, 
^  Footman,  give  me  a  drink  of  water,'  she 

cries,  and  this  sets  her  off  again.     Often  the 

170 


MY    HEROINE 

readings  had  to  end  abruptly  because  her 
mirth  brought  on  violent  fits  of  coughing. 

Sometimes  I  read  to  my  sister  alone, 
and  she  assured  me  that  she  could  not 
see  my  mother  among  the  women  this 
time.  This  she  said  to  humour  me.  Pre- 
sently she  would  slip  upstairs  to  announce 
triumphantly,  ^  You  are  in  again ! ' 

Or  in  the  small  hours  I  might  make  a 
confidant  of  my  father,  and  when  I  had 
finished  reading  he  would  say  thought- 
fully, ^  That  lassie  is  very  natural.  Some 
of  the  ways  you  say  she  had  —  your  mother 
had  them  just  the  same.  Did  you  ever 
notice  what  an  extraordinary  woman  your 
mother  is  ? ' 

Then  would  I  seek  my  mother  for  com- 
fort. She  was  the  more  ready  to  give  it 
because  of  her  profound  conviction  that  if 
I  was  found  out  —  that  Is,  if  readers  dis- 
covered how  frequently  and  in  how  many 
171 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

guises  she  appeared  in  my  books — the 
affair  would  become  a   public  scandal. 

^  You  see  Jess  is  not  really  you/  I 
begin  inquiringly.' 

^  Oh,  no,  she  is  another  kind  of  woman 
altogether/  my  mother  says,  and  then 
spoils  the  compliment  by  adding  naively, 
^  She  had  but  two  rooms  and  I  have  six.' 

I  sigh.  ^Without  counting  the  pantry, 
and  it 's  a  great  big  pantry,'  she  mutters. 

This  was  not  the  sort  of  difference  I 
could  greatly  plume  myself  upon,  and 
honesty  would  force  me  to  say,  ^  As  far 
as  that  goes,  there  was  a  time  when  you 
had  but  two  rooms  yourself ' 

^  That 's  long  since/  she  breaks  in.     ^  I 

began  with  an  up-the-stair,  but  I  always 

had  it  in  my  mind  —  I  never  mentioned 

it,  but  there  it  was  —  to  have  the  down- 

the-stair   as  well.     Ay,  and   I  've   had  it 

this  many  a  year.' 

172 


MY   HEROINE 

*  Still,  there  is  no  denying  that  Jess 
had  the  same  ambition/ 

*  She  had,  but  to  her  two-roomed  house 
she  had  to  stick  all  her  born  days.  Was 
that  like  me  ? ' 

^  No,  but  she  wanted ' 

^  She  wanted,  and  I  wanted,  but  I  got 
and  she  didna.  That's  the  difference 
betwixt  her  and  me/ 

*  If  that  is  all  the  difference,  it  is  little 
credit  I  can  claim  for  having  created  her/ 

My  mother  sees  that  I  need  soothing. 
^  That  is  far  from  being  all  the  difference,' 
she  would  say  eagerly.  ^  There 's  my  silk, 
for  instance.  Though  I  say  it  mysel, 
there  's  not  a  better  silk  in  the  valley  of 
Strathmore.  Had  Jess  a  silk  of  any  kind 
—  not  to  speak  of  a  silk  like  that  ? ' 

^  Well,  she  had  no  silk,  but  you  remem- 
ber how  she  got  that  cloak  with  beads.' 

*  An   eleven   and   a   bit !    Hoots,  what 

173 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

was  that  to  boast  of!  I  tell  you,  every 
single  yard  of  my  silk  cost ' 

^  Mother,  that  is  the  very  way  Jess 
spoke  about  her  cloak ! ' 

She  lets  this  pass,  perhaps  without 
hearing  it,  for  solicitude  about  her  silk 
has  hurried  her  to  the  wardrobe  where 
it  hangs. 

^  Ah,  mother,  I  am  afraid  that  was  very 
Hke  Jess  ! ' 

^  How  could  it  be  like  her  when  she 
didna  even  have  a  wardrobe  ?  I  tell  you 
what,  if  there  had  been  a  real  Jess  and  she 
had  boasted  to  me  about  her  cloak  with 
beads,  I  would  have  said  to  her  in  a  care- 
less sort  of  voice,  "  Step  across  with  me, 
Jess,  and  I  '11  let  you  see  something  that 
is  hanging  in  my  wardrobe."  That  would 
have  lowered  her  pride  ! ' 

^  I  don't  believe  that  is  what  you  would 

have  done,  mother.' 
174 


MY   HEROINE 

Then  a  sweeter  expression  would  come 
into  her  face.  ^  No/  she  would  say  reflec- 
tively, ^  it 's  not/ 

^  What  would  you  have  done  ?  I  think 
I  know/ 

^  You  canna  know.  But  I  'm  thinking 
I  would  have  called  to  mind  that  she  was 
a  poor  woman,  and  ailing,  and  terrible 
windy  about  her  cloak,  and  I  would  just 
have  said  it  was  a  beauty  and  that  I 
wished  I  had  one  like  it.' 

^Yes,  I  am  certain  that  is  what  you 
would  have  done.  But  oh,  mother,  that 
is  just  how  Jess  would  have  acted  if  some 
poorer  woman  than  she  had  shown  her  a 
new  shawl/ 

^  Maybe,  but  though  I  hadna  boasted 
about  my  silk  I  would  have  wanted  to 
do  it.' 

^Just  as  Jess  would  have  been  fidget- 
ing to  show  off  her  eleven  and  a  bit ! ' 
175 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

It  seems  advisable  to  jump  to  another 
book  ;  not  to  my  first,  because  —  well,  as 
it  was  my  first  there  would  naturally  be 
something  of  my  mother  In  It,  and  not  to 
the  second,  as  it  was  my  first  novel  and 
not  much  esteemed  even  In  our  family. 
(But  the  little  touches  of  my  mother  In  It 
are  not  so  bad.)  Let  us  try  the  story 
about  the  minister. 

My  mother's  first  remark  is  decidedly 
damping.  ^  Many  a  time  in  my  young 
days,'  she  says,  ^  I  played  about  the  Auld 
Licht  manse,  but  I  little  thought  I  should 
live  to  be  the  mistress  of  it ! ' 

*  But  Margaret  Is  not  you.' 

'  N — no,  oh  no.  She  had  a  very  differ- 
ent life  from  mine.  I  never  let  on  to  a 
soul  that  she  is  me ! ' 

*  She  was  not  meant  to  be  you  when  I 

began.     Mother,  what  a  way  you  have  of 

coming  creeping  in  ! ' 
176 


MY    HEROINE 

*  You  '  should  keep  better  watch  on 
yourself/ 

^  Perhaps  if  I  had  called  Margaret  by- 
some  other  name ' 

^  I  should  have  seen  through  her  just 
the  same.  As  soon  as  I  heard  she  was  the 
mother  I  began  to  laugh.  In  some  ways, 
though,  she's  no  so  very  like  me.  She 
was  long  in  finding  out  about  Babbie. 
I  'se  uphaud  I  should  have  been  quicker.' 

^  Babbie,  you  see,  kept  close  to  the 
garden-wall.' 

^  It's  not  the  wall  up  at  the  manse  that 
would  have  hidden  her  from  me.' 

^  She  came  out  in  the  dark.' 

^  I  'm  thinking  she  would  have  found  me 
looking  for  her  with  a  candle.' 

^  And  Gavin  was  secretive.' 

'  That  would  have  put  me  on  my 
mettle.' 

*  She  never  suspected  anything.' 

12  177 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

*  I  wonder  at  her.' 

But  my  new  heroine  is  to  be  a  child. 
What  has  madam  to  say  to  that  ? 

A  child !  Yes,  she  has  something  to 
say  even  to  that.  ^  This  beats  all ! '  are 
the  words. 

^  Come,  come,  mother,  I  see  what  you 
are  thinking,  but  I  assure  you  that  this 
time ' 

^  Of  course  not,'  she  said  soothingly, 
^  oh,  no,  she  canna  be  me  ' ;  but  anon  her 
real  thoughts  are  revealed  by  the  artless 
remark,  ^  I  doubt,  though,  this  is  a  tough 
job  you  have  on  hand  —  it  is  so  long  since 
I  was  a  bairn.' 

We  came  very  close  to  each  other  in 

those    talks.     ^  It   is   a   queer  thing,'  she 

would   say    softly,    ^that  near   everything 

you   write  is  about  this  bit  place.     You 

little   expected  that  when   you  began.     I 

mind  well  the  time  when  it  never  entered 
178 


MY    HEROINE 

your  head,  any  more  than  mine,  that  you 
could  write  a  page  about  our  squares  and 
wynds.     I  wonder  how  It  has  come  about  ? ' 

There  was  a  time  when  I  could  not  have 
answered  that  question,  but  that  time  had 
long  passed.  ^  I  suppose,  mother,  it  was 
because  you  were  most  at  home  in  your 
own  town,  and  there  was  never  much 
pleasure  to  me  in  writing  of  people  who 
could  not  have  known  you,  nor  of  squares 
and  wynds  you  never  passed  through,  nor 
of  a  countryside  where  you  never  carried 
your  father's  dinner  in  a  flaggon.  There 
Is  scarce  a  house  In  all  my  books  where 
I  have  not  seemed  to  see  you  a  thousand 
times,  bending  over  the  fireplace  or  wind- 
ing up  the  clock/ 

^  And  yet  you  used  to  be  in  such  a  quan- 
dary because  you  knew  nobody  you  could 
make  your  women-folk  out  of!     Do  you 

mind  that,  and  how  we  both  laughed  at 
179 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

the  notion  of  your  having  to  make  them 
out  of  me  ? ' 

^  I  remember.' 

'  And  now  you  Ve  gone  back  to  my 
father's  time.  It 's  more  than  sixty  years 
since  I  carried  his  dinner  in  a  flaggon 
through  the  long  parks  of  Kinnordy.' 

^  I  often  go  into  the  long  parks,  mother, 
and  sit  on  the  stile  at  the  edge  of  the 
wood  till  I  fancy  I  see  a  little  girl  coming 
toward  me  with  a  flaggon  in  her  hand.' 

^Jumping  the  burn  (I  was  once  so 
proud  of  my  jumps  !)  and  swinging  the 
flaggon  round  so  quick  that  what  was 
inside  hadna  time  to  fall  out.  I  used  to 
wear  a  magenta  frock  and  a  white  pina- 
fore.    Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  ? ' 

*  Mother,    the    little   girl   in    my  story 

wears     a    magenta    frock    and     a    white 

pinafore.' 

^  You  minded  that !     But  I  'm  thinking 
i8o 


MY   HEROINE 

it  wasna  a  lassie  in  a  pinafore  you  saw 
in  the  long  parks  of  Kinnordy,  it  was  just 
a  gey  done  auld  woman/ 

*  It  was  a  lassie  in  a  pinafore,  mother, 
when  she  was  far  away,  but  when  she 
came  near  it  was  a  gey  done  auld  woman/ 

*  And  a  fell  ugly  one  ! ' 

*  The  most  beautiful  one  I  shall  ever 
see/ 

*  I  wonder  to  hear  you  say  it.  Look  at 
my  wrinkled  auld  face/ 

^  It  is  the  sweetest  face  in  all  the  world/ 

*  See  how  the  rings  drop  off  my  poor 
wasted  finger/ 

*  There  will  always  be  some  one  nigh, 
mother,  to  put  them  on  again/ 

'  Ay,  will  there  !  Well  I  know  it.  Do 
you  mind  how  when  you  were  but  a  bairn 
you  used  to  say,  "  Wait  till  I  'm  a  man, 
and  you  '11  never  have  a  reason  for  greet- 
ing again  ? " ' 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

I  remembered. 

^You  used  to  come  running  into  the 
house  to  say,  "  There 's  a  proud  dame 
going  down  the  Marywellbrae  in  a  cloak 
that  is  black  on  one  side  and  white  on  the 
other ;  wait  till  I  'm  a  man,  and  you  '11  have 
one  the  very  same/'  And  when  I  lay  on  gey 
hard  beds  you  said,  "  When  I  'm  a  man 
you  '11  lie  on  feathers."  You  saw  nothing 
bonny,  you  never  heard  of  my  setting  my 
heart  on  anything,  but  what  you  flung  up 
your  head  and  cried,  "  Wait  till  I  'm  a  man." 
You  fair  shamed  me  before  the  neigh- 
bours, and  yet  I  was  windy,  too.  And  now 
it  has  all  come  true  like  a  dream.  I  can 
call  to  mind  not  one  little  thing  I  ettled 
for  in  my  lusty  days  that  hasna  been  put 
into  my  hands  in  my  auld  age ;  I  sit  here 
useless,  surrounded  by  the  gratification 
of  all  my  wishes   and  all  my  ambitions, 

and  at  times  I  'm  near  terrified,  for  it 's  as 
182 


MY   HEROINE 

if  God  had  mistaken  me  for  some  other 
woman.' 

^  Your  hopes  and  ambitions  were  so 
simple/  I  would  say,  but  she  did  not  like 
that.  ^They  werna  that  simple/  she 
would  answer,  flushing. 

I  am  reluctant 'to  leave  those  happy 
days,  but  the  end  must  be  faced,  and  as  I 
write  I  seem  to  see  my  mother  growing 
smaller  and  her  face  more  wistful,  and 
still  she  lingers  with  us,  as  if  God  had 
said,  ^  Child  of  mine,  your  time  has  come, 
be  not  afraid,'  and  she  was  not  afraid,  but 
still  she  lingered,  and  He  waited,  smiling. 
I  never  read  any  of  that  last  book  to  her ; 
when  it  was  finished  she  was  too  heavy 
with  years  to  follow  a  story.  To  me  this 
was  as  if  my  book  must  go  out  cold  into 
the  world  (like  all  that  may  come  after  it 
from  me),  and  my  sister,  who  took  more 

thought  for  others  and  less  for  herself  than 
183 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

any  other  human  being  I  have  known, 
saw  this,  and  by  some  means  unfathomable 
to  a  man  coaxed  my  mother  into  being 
once  again  the  woman  she  had  been.  On 
a  day  but  three  weeks  before  she  died 
my  father  and  I  were  called  softly  upstairs. 
My  mother  was  sitting  bolt  upright,  as 
she  loved  to  sit,  in  her  old  chair  by  the 
window,  with  a  manuscript  in  her  hands. 
But  she  was  looking  about  her  without 
much  understanding.  ^  Just  to  please  him,' 
my  sister  whispered,  and  then  in  a  low, 
trembling  voice  my  mother  began  to  read. 
I  looked  at  my  sister.  Tears  of  woe  were 
stealing  down  her  face.  Soon  the  reading 
became  very  slow  and  stopped.  After  a 
pause,  ^  There  was  something  you  were  to 
say  to  him,'  my  sister  reminded  her. 
^  Luck,'  muttered  a  voice  as  from  the  dead, 
^iuSfc>*  And  then  the  old  smile  came  run- 
ning to  her  face  like  a  lamp-lighter,  and 
184 


MY  HEROINE 

she  said  to  me, '  I  am  ower  far  gone  to  read, 
but  I  'm  thinking  I  am  in  it  again  ! '  My 
father  put  her  Testament  in  her  hands,  and 
it  fell  open  —  as  it  always  does  —  at  the 
Fourteenth  of  John.  She  made  an  effort  to 
read  but  could  not.  Suddenly  she  stooped 
and  kissed  the  broad  page.  ^  Will  that  do 
instead  ? '  she  asked. 


185 


CHAPTER  X 

ART  THOU  AFRAID   HIS   POWER  SHALL  FAIL  ? 

For  years  I  had  been  trying  to  prepare 
myself  for  my  mother's  death,  trying  to 
foresee  how  she  would  die,  seeing  myself 
when  she  was  dead.  Even  then  I  knew  it 
was  a  vain  thing  I  did,  but  I  am  sure  there 
was  no  morbidness  in  it.  I  hoped  I  should 
be  with  her  at  the  end,  not  as  the  one  she 
looked  at  last  but  as  him  from  whom  she 
would  turn  only  to  look  upon  her  best- 
beloved,  not  my  arm  but  my  sister's 
should  be  round  her  when  she  died,  not 
my  hand  but  my  sister's  should  close  her 
eyes.  I  knew  that  I  might  reach  her  too 
late ;    I    saw  myself  open   a  door  where 

there  was  none  to  greet  me,   and  go  up 
i86 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

the  old  stair  Into  the  old  room.  But  what 
I  did  not  foresee  was  that  which  happened. 
I  little  thought  it  could  come  about  that  I 
should  climb  the  old  stair,  and  pass  the 
door  beyond  which  my  mother  lay  dead, 
and  enter  another  room  first,  and  go  on 
my  knees  there. 

My  mother's  favourite  paraphrase  is  one 
known  in  our  house  as  David's  because 
it  was  the  last  he  learned  to  repeat.  It 
was  also  the  last  thing  she  read  — 

Art  thou  afraid  his  power  shall  fail 

When  comes  thy  evil  day  ? 
And  can  an  all-creating  arm 

Grow  weary  or  decay  ? 

I  heard  her  voice  gain  strength  as  she 

read  it,  I  saw  her  timid  face  take  courage, 

but  when  came  my  evil  day,  then  at  the 

dawning,  alas  for  me,  I  was  afraid. 

In  those  last  weeks,  though  we  did  not 
187 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

know  it,  my  sister  was  dying  on  her  feet. 
For  many  years  she  had  been  giving  her 
life,  a  Httle  bit  at  a  time,  for  another  year, 
another  month,  latterly  for  another  day,  of 
her  mother,  and  now  she  was  worn  out. 
^  I  '11  never  leave  you,  mother.'  —  ^  Fine  I 
know  you  '11  never  leave  me.'  I  thought 
that  cry  so  pathetic  at  the  time,  but  I  was 
not  to  know  its  full  significance  until  it 
was  only  the  echo  of  a  cry.  Looking  at 
these  two  then  it  was  to  me  as  if  my 
mother  had  set  out  for  the  new  country, 
and  my  sister  held  her  back.  But  I  see 
with  a  clearer  vision  now.  It  is  no  longer 
the  mother  but  the  daughter  who  is  in 
front,  and  she  cries,  ^  Mother,  you  are 
lingering  so  long  at  the  end,  I  have  ill 
waiting  for  you.' 

But  she  knew  no  more  than  we  how  it 
was  to  be ;  if  she  seemed  weary  when  we 
met   her   on    the    stair,  she  was  still    the 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

brightest,  the  most  active  figure  in  my 
mother's  room ;  she  never  complained, 
save  when  she  had  to  depart  on  that  walk 
which  separated  them  for  half  an  hour. 
How  reluctantly  she  put  on  her  bonnet, 
how  we  had  to  press  her  to  it,  and  how 
often,  having  gone  as  far  as  the  door,  she 
came  back  to  stand  by  my  mother's  side. 
Sometimes  as  we  watched  from  the  win- 
dow, I  could  not  but  laugh,  and  yet  with 
a  pain  at  my  heart,  to  see  her  hasting  dog- 
gedly onward,  not  an  eye  for  right  or  left, 
nothing  inWmr  head  but  the  return. 
There  was  always  my  father  in  the  house, 
than  whom  never  was  a  more  devoted 
husband,  and  often  there  were  others,  one 
daughter  in  particular,  but  they  scarce 
dared  tend  my  mother  —  this  one  snatched 
the  cup  jealously  from  their  hands.  My 
mother  hked  it  best  from    her.     We  all 

knew  this.     ^  I  like  them  fine,  but  I  canna 
189 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

do  without  you.'  My  sister,  so  unselfish 
in  all  other  things,  had  an  unwearying  pas- 
sion for  parading  it  before  us.  It  was  the 
rich  reward  of  her  life. 

The  others  spoke  among  themselves  of 
what  must  come  soon,  and  they  had  tears 
to  help  them,  but  this  daughter  would  not 
speak  of  it,  and  her  tears  were  ever  slow 
to  come.  I  knew  that  night  and  day  she 
was  trying  to  get  ready  for  a  world  with- 
out her  mother  in  it,  but  she  must  remain 
dumb,  none  of  us  was  so  Scotch  as  she, 
she  must  bear  her  agony^Bne,  a  tragic 
solitary  Scotchwoman.  Even  my  mother, 
who  spoke  so  calmly  to  us  of  the  coming 
time,  could  not  mention  it  to  her.  These 
two,  the  one  in  bed,  and  the  other  bending 
over  her,  could  only  look  long  at  each  other, 
until  slowly  the  tears  came  to  my  sister's 
eyes,  and    then    my   mother   would    turn 

away  her  wet  face.     And  still  neither  said  a 
190 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

word,  each  knew  so  well  what  was  in  the 
other's  thoughts,  so  eloquently  they  spoke 
in  silence,  ^  Mother,  I  am  loath  to  let  you 
go,'  and  ^  Oh,  my  daughter,  now  that  my 
time  is  near,  I  wish  you  werena  quite  so 
fond  of  me.'  But  when  the  daughter  had 
slipped  away  my  mother  would  grip  my 
hand  and  cry,  ^  I  leave  her  to  you ;  you 
see  how  she  has  sown,  it  will  depend  on 
you  how  she  is  to  reap.'  And  I  made 
promises,  but  I  suppose  neither  of  us 
saw  that  she  had  already  reaped. 

In  the  night  my  mother  might  waken 
and  sit  up  in  bed,  confused  by  what  she  saw. 
While  she  slept,  six  decades  or  more  had 
rolled  back  and  she  was  again  in  her  girl- 
hood; suddenly  recalled  from  it  she  was 
dizzy,  as  with  the  rush  of  the  years.  How 
had  she  come  into  this  room  ?  When  she 
went  to  bed  last  night,  after  preparing  her 

father's  supper,  there  had  been  a  dresser 
191 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

at  the  window:  what  had  become  of  the 

salt-bucket,   the   meal-tub,  the  hams   that 

should    be    hanging    from    the     rafters  ? 

There  were  no  rafters  ;  it  was  a  papered 

ceiling.     She  had  often  heard  of  open  beds, 

but  how  came  she  to  be  lying  In  one  ?     To 

fathom    these    things    she    would    try    to 

spring  out  of  bed  and  be  startled  to  find  It 

a  labour,  as  If  she  had  been  taken  111  In  the 

night.     Hearing  her  move  I  might  knock 

on  the  wall  that  separated  us,  this  being  a 

sign,  prearranged  between  us,  that  I   was 

near  by,  and  so  all  was  well,  but  sometimes 

the    knocking    seemed   to    belong   to  the 

past,  and  she  would  cry,  ^  That  Is  my  father 

chapping  at  the  door,  I  maun  rise  and  let 

him  In.'     She  seemed  to  see  him  —  and  It 

was  one  much  younger  than    herself  that 

she  saw —  covered  with  snow,  kicking  clods 

of  It  from  his  boots,  his  hands  swollen  and 

chapped   with   sand   and    wet.      Then  I 
192 


ART   THOU    AFRAID? 

would  hear  —  it  was  a  common  experience 
of  the  night  —  my  sister  soothing  her 
lovingly,  and  turning  up  the  light  to  show 
her  where  she  was,  helping  her  to  the 
window  to  let  her  see  that  it  was  no  night 
of  snow,  even  humouring  her  by  going 
downstairs,  and  opening  the  outer  door, 
and  calling  into  the  darkness,  ^  Is  anybody 
there  ? '  and  if  that  was  not  sufficient,  she 
would  swaddle  my  mother  in  wraps  and 
take  her  through  the  rooms  of  the  house, 
lighting  them  one  by  one,  pointing  out 
familiar  objects,  and  so  guiding  her  slowly 
through  the  sixty  odd  years  she  had 
jumped  too  quickly.  And  perhaps  the 
end  of  it  was  that  my  mother  came  to 
my  bedside  and  said  wistfully,  ^  Am  I  an 
auld  woman  ? ' 

But  with  daylight,  even  during  the  last 
week  in  which  I  saw  her,  she  would  be  up 

and  doing,  for  though   pitifully   frail    she 
13  193 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

no  longer  suffered  from  any  ailment.  She 
seemed  so  well  comparatively  that  I,  hav- 
ing still  the  remnants  of  an  illness  to 
shake  off,  was  to  take  a  holiday  in 
Switzerland,  and  then  return  for  her, 
when  we  were  all  to  go  to  the  much- 
loved  manse  of  her  much-loved  brother 
in  the  west  country.  So  she  had  many 
preparations  on  her  mind,  and  the  morning 
was  the  time  when  she  had  any  strength 
to  carry  them  out.  To  leave  her  house 
had  always  been  a  month's  work  for  her, 
it  must  be  left  in  such  perfect  order, 
every  corner  visited  and  cleaned  out, 
every  chest  probed  to  the  bottom,  the 
linen  Hfted  out,  examined  and  put  back 
lovingly  as  if  to  make  it  lie  more  easily  in 
her  absence,  shelves  had  to  be  re-papered, 
a  strenuous  week  devoted  to  the  garret. 
Less  exhaustively,  but  with  much  of  the 

old  exultation  in  her  house,  this  was  done 
194 


AI^T  THOU   AFRAID? 

for  the  la^t  time,  and  then  there  was  the 
bringing  'jbut  of  her  own  clothes,  and 
the  spreading  of  them  upon  the  bed  and 
the  pleas^  fingering  of  them,  and  the  con- 
sultations' about  which  should  be  left 
behind.  Ah,  beautiful  dream  !  I  clung  to 
it  every  morning ;  I  would  not  look  when 
my  sister  shook  her  head  at  it,  but  long 
before  each  day  was  done,  I  too  knew  that 
it  could  never  be.  It  had  come  true  many 
times,  but  never  again.  We  two  knew  it, 
but  when  my  mother,  who  must  always 
be  prepared  so  long  beforehand,  called 
for  her  trunk  and  band-boxes  we  brought 
them  to  her,  and  we  stood  silent,  watch- 
ing, while  she  packed. 

The  morning  came  when  I  was  to  go 
away.  It  had  come  a  hundred  times, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  when  I  was  an  under- 
graduate, when  I  was  a  man,  when  she  had 
seemed  big  and  strong  to  me,  when  she 
195 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

was  grown  so  little  and  It  was  I  who  put 
my  arms  round  her.  But  always  It  was 
the  same  scene.  I  am  not  to  write  about 
it,  of  the  parting  and  the  turning  back 
on  the  stair,  and  two  people  trying  to 
smile,  and  the  setting  off  again,  and  the 
cry  that  brought  me  back.  Nor  shall  I 
say  more  of  the  silent  figure  in  the  back- 
ground, always  in  the  background,  always 
near  my  mother.  The  last  I  saw  of  these 
two  was  from  the  gate.  They  were  at  the 
window  which  never  passes  from  my  eyes. 
I  could  not  see  my  dear  sister's  face,  for 
she  was  bending  over  my  mother,  pointing 
me  out  to  her,  and  telling  her  to  wave 
her  hand  and  smile,  because  I  hked  it 
so.  That  action  was  an  epitome  of  my 
sister's  life. 

I  had  been  gone   a  fortnight  when  the 
telegram  was  put  into  my   hands.     I   had 

got  a  letter  from  my  sister,  a   few  hours 
196 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

before,  saying  that  all  was  well  at  home. 
The  telegram  said  in  five  words  that  she 
had  died  suddenly  the  previous  night. 
There  was  no  mention  of  my  mother, 
and  I  was  three  days'  journey  from  home. 
The  news  I  got  on  reaching  London 
was  this  :  my  mother  did  not  understand 
that  her  daughter  was  dead,  and  they  were 
waiting  for  me  to  tell  her. 

I  need  not  have  been  such  a  coward. 
This  is  how  these  two  died  —  for,  after  all, 
I  was  too  late  by  twelve  hours  to  see  my 
mother  alive. 

Their  last  night  was  almost  gleeful.     In 

the  old  days  that  hour  before  my  mother's 

gas   was   lowered  had  so   often   been  the 

happiest   that   my  pen    steals    back  to  it 

again    and    again  as    I   write  :  it  was   the 

time  when  my  mother  lay  smiling  in  bed 

and   we   were    gathered    round    her   like 
197 


MARGARET    OGILVY 

children  at  play,  our  reticence  scattered 
on  the  floor  or  tossed  in  sport  from  hand 
to  hand,  the  author  become  so  boister- 
ous that  in  the  pauses  they  were  holding 
him  in  check  by  force.  Rather  woful 
had  been  some  attempts  latterly  to  renew 
those  evenings,  when  my  mother  might  be 
brought  to  the  verge  of  them,  as  if  some 
familiar  echo  called  her,  but  where  she 
was  she  did  not  clearly  know,  because  the 
past  was  roaring  in  her  ears  like  a  great 
sea.  But  this  night  was  the  last  gift  to 
my  sister.  The  joyousness  of  their  voices 
drew  the  others  in  the  house  upstairs, 
where  for  more  than  an  hour  my  mother 
was  the  centre  of  a  merry  party  and  so 
clear  of  mental  eye  that  they,  who  were  at 
first  cautious,  abandoned  themselves  to 
the  sport,  and  whatever  they  said,  by  way 
of  humourous  rally,  she  instantly  capped 

as    of    old,    turning    their    darts    against 
198 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

themselves  until  in  self-defence  they  were 

three  to  one,  and  the  three  hard  pressed. 

How  my  sister  must  have  been  rejoicing. 

Once    again   she   could   cry,   ^  Was    there 

ever  such  a  woman  ! '     They  tell  me  that 

such   a  happiness  was  on  the  daughter's 

face  that  my  mother  commented    on    it, 

that  having   risen    to    go   they  sat   down 

again,  fascinated  by  the  radiance  of  these 

two.     And  when    eventually    they    went, 

the  last  words  they  heard  were,  ^  They  are 

gone,  you  see,  mother,  but  I  am  here,  I 

will  never  leave  you,'  and  ^  Na,  you  winna 

leave  me ;  fine  I  know  that.'     For  some 

time  afterwards  their  voices  could  be  heard 

from  downstairs,  but  what  they  talked  of 

is  not  known.     And  then    came    silence. 

Had  I  been  at  home  I  should  have  been 

in  the  room  again  several  times,  turning 

the  handle  of  the  door  softly,  releasing  it 

so    that   it   did    not  creak,  and  standing 
199 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

looking  at  them.  It  had  been  so  a  thou- 
sand times.  But  that  night,  would  I  have 
slipped  out  again,  mind  at  rest,  or  should 
I  have  seen  the  change  coming  while  they 
slept  ? 

Let  it  be  told  in  the  fewest  words.  My 
sister  awoke  next  morning  with  a  head- 
ache. She  had  always  been  a  martyr  to 
headaches,  but  this  one,  like  many  another, 
seemed  to  be  unusually  severe.  Never- 
theless she  rose  and  lit  my  mother's  fire 
and  brought  up  her  breakfast,  and  then 
had  to  return  to  bed.  She  was  not  able  to 
write  her  daily  letter  to  me,  saying  how  my 
mother  was,  and  almost  the  last  thing  she 
did  was  to  ask  my  father  to  write  it,  and 
not  to  let  on  that  she  was  ill.  as  it  would 
distress  me.  The  doctor  was  called,  but 
she  rapidly  became  unconscious.  In  this 
state  she  was  removed  from  my  mother's 
bed  to  another.     It  was   discovered  that 

200 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

she  was  suffering  from  an  internal  disease. 
No  one  had  guessed  it.  She  herself  never 
knew.  Nothing  could  be  done.  In  this 
unconsciousness  she  passed  away,  without 
knowing  that  she  was  leaving  her  mother. 
Had  I  known,  when  I  heard  of  her  death, 
that  she  had  been  saved  that  pain,  surely 
I  could  have  gone  home  more  bravely  with 
the  words. 

Art  thou  afraid  his  power  shall  fail 
When  comes  thy  evil  day  ? 

Ah,  you  would  think  so,  I  should  have 
thought  so,  but  I  know  myself  now. 
When  I  reached  London  I  did  hear  how 
my  sister  died,  but  still  I  was  afraid.  I 
saw  myself  in  my  mother's  room  telling  her 
why  the  door  of  the  next  room  was  locked, 
and  I  was  afraid.  God  had  done  so  much, 
and  yet  I  could  not  look  confidently  to 
Him  for  the  little  that  was  left  to  do.  ^  O 
ye  of  little  faith  ! '    These  are  the  words  I 

201 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

seem  to  hear  my  mother  saying  to  me  now, 
and  she  looks  at  me  so  sorrowfully. 

He  did  it  very  easily,  and  it  has  ceased 
to  seem  marvellous  to  me  because  it  was 
so  plainly  His  doing.  My  timid  mother 
saw  the  one  who  was  never  to  leave  her 
carried  unconscious  from  the  room,  and 
she  did  not  break  down.  She  who  used 
to  wring  her  hands  if  her  daughter  was 
gone  for  a  moment  never  asked  for  her 
again,  they  were  afraid  to  mention  her 
name ;  an  awe  fell  upon  them.  But  I  am 
sure  they  need  not  have  been  so  anxious. 
There  are  mysteries  in  life  and  death,  but 
this  was  not  one  of  them.  A  child  can 
understand  what  happened.  God  said 
that  my  sister  must  come  first,  but  He 
put  His  hand  on  my  mother's  eyes  at 
that  moment  and  she  was  altered. 

They  told  her  that  I  was  on  my  way 
home,  and  she  said  with  a  confident  smile. 


ART   THOU    AFRAID? 

^  He  will  come  as  quick  as  trains  can 
bring  him.'  That  is  my  reward,  that  is 
what  I  have  got  for  my  books.  Every- 
thing I  could  do  for  her  in  this  life  I  have 
done  since  I  was  a  boy ;  I  look  back 
through  the  years  and  I  cannot  see  the 
smallest  thing  left  undone. 

They  were  buried  together  on  my 
mother's  seventy-sixth  birthday,  though 
there  had  been  three  days  between  their 
deaths.  On  the  last  day,  my  mother  in- 
sisted on  rising  from  bed  and  going 
through  the  house.  The  arms  that  had 
so  often  helped  her  on  that  journey  were 
now  cold  in  death,  but  there  were  others 
only  less  loving,  and  she  went  slowly  from 
room  to  room  like  one  bidding  good-bye, 
and  in  mine  she  said,  ^The  beautiful 
rows  upon  rows  of  books,  and  he  said 
every  one  of  them  was  mine,  all  mine ! ' 

and    in    the    east    room,    which   was    her 

203 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

greatest  triumph,  she  said  caressingly, 
*  My  nain  bonny  room  ! '  All  this  time 
there  seemed  to  be  something  that  she 
wanted,  but  the  one  was  dead  who  always 
knew  what  she  wanted,  and  they  produced 
many  things  at  which  she  shook  her  head. 
They  did  not  know  then  that  she  was 
dying,  but  they  followed  her  through  the 
house  in  some  apprehension,  and  after  she 
returned  to  bed  they  saw  that  she  was 
becoming  very  weak.  Once  she  said 
eagerly,  ^  Is  that  you,  David  ? '  and  again 
she  thought  she  heard  her  father  knock- 
ing the  snow  off  his  boots.  Her  desire  for 
that  which  she  could  not  name  came  back 
to  her,  and  at  last  they  saw  that  what  she 
wanted  was  the  old  christening  robe.  It 
was  brought  to  her,  and  she  unfolded  it 
with  trembling,  exultant  hands,  and  when 
she  had  made    sure   that   it  was    still    of 

virgin  fairness  her  old  arms  went  round  it 
204 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

adoringly,  and  upon  her  face  there  was 
the  ineJfFable  mysterious  glow  of  mother- 
hood. Suddenly  she  said,  ^  Wha's  bairn 's 
dead  ?  is  a  bairn  of  mine  dead  ? '  but  those 
watching  dared  not  speak,  and  then  slowly 
as  if  with  an  effort  of  memory  she  repeated 
our  names  aloud  in  the  order  in  which  we 
were  born.  Only  one,  who  should  have 
come  third  among  the  ten,  did  she  omit, 
the  one  in  the  next  room,  but  at  the  end, 
after  a  pause,  she  said  her  name  and 
repeated  it  again  and  again  and  again, 
lingering  over  it  as  if  it  were  the  most 
exquisite  music  and  this  her  dying  song. 
And  yet  it  was  a  very  commonplace  name. 
They  knew  now  that  she  was  dying. 
She  told  them  to  fold  up  the  christening 
robe  and  almost  sharply  she  watched 
them  put  it  away,  and  then  for  some  time 
she  talked  of  the  long  lovely  hfe  that  had 
been  hers,  and  of  Him  to  whom  she  owed 

20S 


*  ■  •      i 

MARGARET   OGILVY 

it.     She  said  good-bye   to  them  all,  and 

at  last  turned  her  face  to  the  side  where 

her  best-beloved  had  lain,  and  for  over  an 

hour  she  prayed.     They  only  caught  the 

words  now  and  again,  and  the    last  they 

heard  were   ^  God '  and  ^  love.'     I   think 

God  was  smiling  when  He  took    her  to 

Him,  as  He  had  so  often  smiled  at  her 

during  those  seventy-six  years. 

I  saw  her  lying  dead,  and  her  face  was 

beautiful    and    serene.       But    it   was    the 

other  room  I  entered  first,  and  it  was  by 

my  sister's  side  that  I  fell  upon  my  knees. 

The  rounded   completeness  of  a  woman's 

life  that  was  my  mother's  had  not  been  for 

her.     She  would  not  have  it  at  the  price. 

^  I  '11  never  leave  you,   mother.'  —  ^  Fine 

I    know   you  '11   never   leave  me.'      The 

fierce  joy    of  loving   too    much,    it   is  a 

terrible  thing.      My    sister's   mouth   was 

firmly  closed,  as  if  she  had  got  her  way. 
206 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

And  now  I  am  left  without  them,  but  I 
trust  my  memory  will  ever  go  back  to 
those  happy  days,  not  to  rush  through 
them,  but  dallying  here  and  there,  even 
as  my  mother  wanders  through  my  books. 
And  if  I  also  live  to  a  time  when  age  must 
dim^my  mind  and  the  past  comes  sweep- 
ing back  like  the  shades  of  night  over  the 
bare  road  of  the  present  it  will  not,  I 
believe,  be  my  youth  I  shall  see  but  hers, 
not  a  boy  clinging  to  his  mother's  skirt 
and  crying,  ^  Wait  till  I  'm  a  man,  and 
you  '11  lie  on  feathers,'  but  a  little  girl  in  a 
magenta  frock  and  a  white  pinafore,  who 
comes  toward  me  through  the  long 
parks,  singing  to  herself,  and  carrying  her 
father's  dinner  in  a  flaggon. 

THE    END 


207 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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DEC    2   19|47 

MAR  31 1948 

JUN    4 


JUL     8  1979 


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tB79 


iD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


